


Open Season

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Endless thanks to Ginny for the multiple betas.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Open Season

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to Ginny for the multiple betas.

There was something against his cheek.

That was the first thought that Doyle had -- cheek, hard surface. The second was that the same hard surface was also pressing against his jawbone, his collarbone, his hip, his thigh... the discomfort crept up on him gradually, not unlike waking up with a hangover. Which come to think of it, he wasn't.

He opened his eyes.

He was... okay, he didn't know where he was. Someone's kitchen, on the floor, which was the hard surface making him uncomfortable. He pushed himself upright and sat back on his knees, trembling slightly. He didn't have the headache, but the shaking feeling was reminiscent of the dehydration that usually followed a night on the bottle. What had he...

*Oh.*

Everything came flooding back. He'd hit Angel -- knocked him right off that platform down into the hold of the ship. He'd kissed Cordelia -- and how he could have forgotten that, even for a moment, was something he wasn't sure about. And then he'd... died.

Doyle shuffled the memories over in his mind like a deck of cards, and then lay them out again only to find that he was still holding the same hand. Yup. He'd died. There was no way he could have survived the Beacon, and if he had, by some miracle, he would have been scarred and in the hospital with three quarters of his flesh burnt off. He might not remember the actual moment of dying, but his brain still worked well enough to know that he had. So the question remaining was -- how had he gotten here?

And where *was* here?

Before he could lever himself up off the floor and try to find out, he heard the sound of a door, not too far away, opening. A bustle, as someone put something down and closed the door, the click of a dead bolt shooting home. The person started walking in what sounded like Doyle's direction, and he had just enough time to think that whoever it was was going to be more surprised to find him in their kitchen than he was to be there, probably. Then a man came around the corner and caught sight of him, and froze.

They sized each other up slowly. The guy was tall but not large -- slight of build, rather than heavily muscled. He wore glasses and looked bookish but also, somehow, less surprised to find Doyle there than he'd expected.

The man took a tentative step closer, narrowing his eyes, and Doyle shifted back in response.

"It's all right," the man said with a British accent, and spread his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"Easy for you to say," Doyle responded, his voice hoarse. He moved back a few more inches, one hand resting on the floor to support himself. "And not to sound like a B-movie, but where the hell am I?"

The man's gaze fell to the floor in front of Doyle, and when he glanced down himself he saw some sooty-looking marks there, marks that he'd disturbed with his movements. "Of course!" the guy said, almost to himself. "How could I have been so stupid? No *wonder* it didn't work."

"Uh huh." Doyle stood up shakily and leaned on the back of the nearest chair, feeling less steady but also less vulnerable, up off the floor. "What didn't work? And who are you?"

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," the man said quickly, and started to reach out as if offering to shake hands before obviously thinking better of it and pulling back. "Alan Francis Doyle. You are, aren't you?"

He nodded. "That'd be me, yeah."

"I work with Angel. And Cordelia."

Doyle shook his head. He wasn't sure if he was trying to clear it, or disagreeing with the guy, or what.

"I assure you I do. I can... wait a moment, I can prove it to you." Wesley turned and headed away from the kitchen, and Doyle took a few steps in the same direction and then leaned on the wall as Wesley rummaged around in a desk. After a moment he found what he'd seemingly been looking for -- a small stack of photos. He rifled through them quickly, and then turned back toward Doyle. "Here," he said, and held a single photo out.

Doyle reached out and took it, hesitantly, and turned it around. He looked at it for a long moment, and then glanced up at Wesley to compare the man in the picture to the one standing before him. Then his gaze returned to the photo, his attention on the other two people in it. "Where are they?"

"I'd imagine they're both home by now. Earlier tonight we tried to do a spell... well, *I* tried to do a spell... to bring you back. It seemed that it hadn't worked. But then I arrive home and, remarkably, here you are." Wesley looked at Doyle critically. "Would you like to sit down? Can I get you a drink?"

"Sittin' might not be a bad idea," Doyle admitted.

"Here, then." Wesley indicated a nearby sofa. "Get off of your feet and I'll just fetch a glass of water." He went back into the kitchen and Doyle could hear him opening the refrigerator.

"How long?" he asked, when Wesley came back in and handed him a glass of water. He took a sip gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness of his throat.

"A little over two years," Wesley said slowly.

Doyle blinked as two years vanished in the time it took for the words to be spoken. "Two... years," he repeated, stunned. "Two years. It feels like yesterday."

"Do you remember what happened? Or anything in between?"

"Remember dying," Doyle said. "Not the kind of thing you forget, I can tell you that much. But nothing since." He stared at the surface of the water, then glanced up. "Nothing."

Wesley was looking at him with compassion. "I'm sorry, it must be a terrible shock. Is there anything I can do?"

He blinked again. "I wouldn't mind talking to them."

"Of course." Wesley looked as if he thought he should have expected the request. "Of course, how stupid of me. I'll phone them at once. They'll want to come see you, I'm sure. Just let me -- " He went over and picked up the phone, and then looked back at Doyle. "I'll be right back," he said, and took the phone through the room and into another one beyond it.

Doyle sat on the couch and turned the photo around in his hand again. Angel and Cordelia with this guy -- Wesley. Two years gone. His life gone. And now back. It was a lot to get your mind around.

He could hear Wesley clearly enough as he started to talk into the phone. "Angel? It's Wesley. I don't know how to say this gently so I'm just going to come out with it. He's here... Doyle's here. Well, I'm not quite sure. My best guess is that the practice circle that I drew here this afternoon has something to do with... yes, I realize that. No, I didn't know it was going to... obviously. He's doing quite well, under the circumstances. Yes, I think that would be... Angel, he might like to..."

And then, as if to himself, "Lord save us from impatient vampires."

More silence.

"Cordelia, are you home? Oh, I see. Well, you might want to ask the driver to turn around in head in the direction of my flat, then. The spell... it seems that it *did* work. He's here. Doyle's here, in my apartment. Yes of *course* I'm sure it's him, Cordelia. Well, because he told me so, for one. I've already spoken to Angel and he's on his way here... yes... And he'd like to speak with you, I believe. Yes, hold on." Wesley came back into the room and held the phone out to Doyle. "It's Cordelia," he said unnecessarily.

"Thanks." Doyle took the phone and then a deep breath, and held it to his ear. "Cordy? It's me."

And Christ if she didn't sound just like he remembered her. "Doyle? Is it *really* you? How do I know you're not some weird impostor or something?"

He chuckled. "I dunno, Princess. Ask me anything."

"Okay." She paused and then said, "What was on your special coffee mug at the office?"

That was a stumper. "I don't remember?" he said finally. "I don't even remember *having* a mug."

Cordelia squealed. "It really *is* you. I can't believe it. Listen, I'm on my way there now. I'll be there in... six minutes, tops. Don't go anywhere."

Considering how shaky his legs had been earlier, Doyle didn't think that was going to be an issue. "I won't. I'll be here."

"Okay. Bye." The dial tone sounded as she hung up the other end of the line, and Doyle shut the phone off and handed it back to Wesley. "She's on her way."

"Good. Good." Wesley put the phone back on its base and came over and looked at him.

He couldn't even begin to guess why he was so tired when obviously he'd been doing *nothing* for the past two years. "Am I that interesting?" he asked Wesley after another minute.

"I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time believing that you're actually here."

Doyle grinned. "Yeah, tell me about it. In fact, why don't ya tell me everything? You know, fill me in on what's been going on since I... died."

"All right." Wesley's brow furrowed. "Well, the office that Angel -- that you all shared was destroyed in an explosion. That was some time after I arrived in L.A., which was just after your death."

"Can't say I'm too sorry I wasn't around for the explosion. Doesn't sound like a barrel of laughs." His brain was still struggling to catch up, but at least his mouth didn't seem to need a lot of input to work.

"No, I can assure you that it wasn't."

Something in Wesley's tone made him ask, "You were there?"

Wesley shifted his weight to his other foot. "Unfortunately, yes. But I was rather lucky -- Angel arrived in the nick of time, as they say, and I wasn't seriously injured. Cordelia got the worst of that episode, I'm afraid."

"What?" That made him sit up and take notice. "Cordy was there too?"

"No, no, she was in hospital already at that point because of the..." Wesley paused, his expression wary. "...visions," he said finally.

The world spun down to a narrow tunnel as what Wesley'd said sunk in. "Because of the visions," he repeated. Wesley's glasses were metal-framed, and a shape somewhere between oval and rectangle. Wesley's lips were thin and his hair was mussed like it was too long and he wasn't sure what to do with it. It was easier for Doyle to let his eyes focus on Wesley's face than to let his brain focus on what it was screaming to deny. "Cordy's got..."

And maybe he wasn't focusing as well as he'd thought, even with his eyes, because suddenly Wesley was crouched in front of him. "It's all right. Take some deep breaths, here."

The glass was removed from his hand and a warm hand was touching his shoulder. He thought rather wildly that this was the first time someone had touched him since he'd died. The last touch had been Cordy's. Cordy... "I did it, didn't I?" he asked, from his awkward, slightly bent forward position.

"There. Don't forget to breathe. It's very important when you're living." Wesley said. His hand squeezed gently. "I'm sorry, it's a lot to take in all at once."

_So the answer's 'yes,' then,_ Doyle thought. Christ. And now Cordy was stuck with them. At least he'd done something to *deserve* the visions. She'd just been unlucky. Like everyone around him was always unlucky. "You shouldn't have brought me back," he said.

"I beg your... there are at least two people, both of them on their way here at this very moment, who would disagree with you on that matter. This wasn't an idle decision. A great deal of thought and preparation went into this spell. They *need* you, Doyle. Cordelia needs you."

Doyle raised his head. "She needs me? Why, so she can finally tell me off after two years, for giving her the damned visions in the first place?"

Wesley shook his head and let go of Doyle's shoulder, the loss of touch not something that went unnoticed. "Of course not. But I should let her tell you herself. In fact, when it comes right down to it, none of this is my business, really."

At that moment, if he'd had more strength, he would have gotten up and walked out of there. But no, on second thought, he deserved whatever it was Cordelia wanted to throw at him, and more. "None of your business? But you work with them. Aren't you..."

"Friends?" Wesley asked, finishing the question for him. "Yes, we are. But this is about you, not me. I should think that -- " He broke off as there was a sharp knock at what Doyle assumed was the front door and stood up, heading in that direction.

When Wesley opened the door, Cordelia burst in, dropping her bag on the floor and looking around. "Where is he?" she asked, and then her eyes met his and she smiled, her whole face lighting up. Her hair was shorter, and blonder, and she looked... older. Doyle wasn't sure if two years should have aged her this much, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt like a lance as he realized that no, it was probably the visions that had done that.

"Doyle," she said, and headed straight for him. At the end of the couch she hesitated. "Hi."

He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was still amazingly beautiful; the fine lines on her face that accompanied her gentle smile only made her more so. "Hey," he said. "How are ya?"

"Kind of stunned," Cordelia admitted. "I was all ready for you to come back, if it worked. Then it didn't work -- or at least, we thought it didn't work -- and, but, here you are. I don't think it's really sunk in yet."

"Yeah, for me, either." Doyle was aware of Wesley still standing near the door, like he was trying to give them some space, but he couldn't spare the energy to tell the guy to relax. Instead he gestured at the cushion beside him. "You gonna sit down?"

Cordelia sank down onto the couch and reached for his hand. Hers wasn't particularly warm, but her touch went a long way in reassuring him that this *was* real. "You're really back," she said wonderingly. "I can't believe it worked."

"No one's as surprised as me, Princess, believe me." For a brief moment the desire to run his hands through her hair, to kiss her, to lose himself in her, was very strong. He shoved it all down and patted her hand with his free one instead. "You wanna chew me out? I'm thinking you deserve to."

She looked confused. "What are you talking about? Doyle, we just brought you back from the *dead.* Oh! Maybe the spell scrambled your brain." She glanced at Wesley as if for confirmation.

Wesley came closer, slowly. "I believe he's talking about the visions."

"Oh, right. He didn't know," Cordelia said, nodding, and then her lips thinned. "And you *told* him. Boy, Wes, way to make the recently-dead guy feel welcome."

For some reason Doyle felt the need to protest this. "He didn't... I think it was an accident. I was asking questions and it just kind of... came up."

"'Just kind of came up?'" Cordelia repeated. "Like, oh, it's the end of September, and the weather's been really nice, and by the way, did you realize you gave Cordelia the visions when you kissed her?" It was obviously Wesley that she was annoyed with.

Doyle tightened his hold on her hand. "Cordelia. That's not how it happened, and anyway, don't you think it's a good thing I know?"

She looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. "Yeah. You're right. I just didn't want you to find out like that. If you didn't know."

"*If* I didn't know?"

"Well not like I could *ask* you whether you did it on purpose."

"If I..." He felt the world start to narrow again and determinedly took a slow deep breath, drawing the air as far into his lungs as he could and holding it there. "You thought I gave you the visions on purpose?"

"I didn't *know,*" Cordelia said. "I mean, Angel needed them. *Someone* had to have them, right? You pretty much had two options from where I was standing -- and actually, really only one, because I was the only one standing there after you knocked Angel down off that platform."

Doyle did take her face between his hands then, and he looked into her eyes and spoke carefully, trying to let her know how completely serious he was. "Princess, I didn't have a clue. I'd never have done that to you on purpose. *Never.* Christ, if I could take them back I'd do it in a second."

"Well actually..." she said, a little bit shakily, and then there was a hard rap at the door.

Angel's voice. "Wesley, it's me."

Wesley opened the door and Angel burst in. "Where is he?" he asked, and Doyle couldn't help but smile because it was the same thing Cordelia had said.

He found himself on his feet, moving around Cordelia and toward Angel as if there was no choice in the matter.

"You're here," Angel said, and came and grabbed onto him, his hands firm on Doyle's upper arms, holding him up, holding him *there.* "You're really here."

"You two been working on a script?" Doyle asked, aiming for a joking tone. "Guess there's some kinda protocol for when people return from the dead, yeah?"

"Not so much, actually." Cordelia had stood up and followed him, and now she was standing so close that he could feel the fabric of her shirt brushing against the fabric of his. The closeness of the two of them, one on either side, warmed him. "You're just lucky we know how to roll with the punches." -- _"The good fight, yeah? -- You never know until you've been tested -- I get that now."_ Her hand brushed over his shoulder, the same spot Wesley had touched earlier.

"He's really here," Angel said to Wesley. "You did it."

Wesley ducked his head slightly. "No, we all did it. I may have performed the spell, but you and Cordelia were both instrumental in its success, not to mention Gunn and Fred's -- "

"Geez, Wesley, would it kill you to take a compliment for once?" Cordelia's tone of voice was as familiar to Doyle as his own, and the sound of it threatened to bring tears to his eyes.

Angel's hand came up and cupped the side of his face, briefly. "Maybe you should sit back down," he said.

The three of them moved back to the couch and Angel pushed him down onto the cushions. Cordelia sat next to him and took his hand again immediately; Doyle wasn't sure if it was because she wanted to, or because she could tell that he needed the comfort. Suddenly it was so much *more* than he needed that he was overwhelmed; he clutched at her hand and glanced up at Angel, trying to still the trembling that had started somewhere inside his chest and was spreading outward.

"Hey," Angel said, and sat down next to him, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Take it easy. It's a big shock, coming back -- I know. But it'll be okay."

Cordelia soothed him with gentle touches, her fingertips running over the back of his hand. Doyle blinked furiously, stubbornly fighting back the tears, and his gaze fell on a pile of books across the room. They were haphazardly piled, slips of paper sticking out of several of them. A pen was balanced on top of the pile. It was all too normal. Too real. He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands as the trembling took over.

A hand was rubbing his back -- he could tell it was Cordy's because it was warm, and Angel was still patting his shoulder. In his head Doyle could clearly picture the expression on the vampire's face -- that mixture of concern and 'what the fuck am I supposed to be doing here, exactly?' that he wore so well and with so much practice. The thought amused Doyle and his trembling eased off.

"It's okay," Cordelia was saying gently, her hand moving in steady circles.

"M'all right," he said. "Just gimme a minute here."

"However much time you need," Angel said, giving his shoulder a final pat. "No hurry."

Doyle concentrated on breathing as he blinked and stared at the slightly worn fabric of his pants. Which were, strangely, the same ones he'd been wearing when he died. Not strange *because* they'd been the ones he was wearing when he died, but because he remembered them so clearly. Even though there was a great big nothing between the last moment he could recall and the waking up in Wesley's kitchen -- and *boy* was that nothing big -- his memory of those last few hours of his life were almost as clear as if they'd just happened. He was grateful he couldn't remember the pain, at least.

"Sorry," he said finally, lifting his head and meeting Angel's eyes. "It's all, you know, kinda overwhelming."

"Yeah." Angel's eyes were soft and dark with concern.

Cordelia smoothed his hair back. "It's okay," she repeated. "It's gonna be fine. I -- " She shook her head suddenly and stood up, disappearing further into the apartment. He heard the sound of a door opening and then closing.

"Princess?" Confused, Doyle looked to Angel and Wes for clarification. "Is she -- did I do something?"

"Not at all," Wesley answered smoothly. "I'm sure she's fine. Why don't I just go see if she needs anything, and give you two a moment to talk?" His eyes spoke something to Angel before he followed after Cordelia.

Trying not to listen to the gentle knocking and then the low voices that were soon muffled by a door, Doyle asked, "What's goin' on, Angel? Just tell me."

"It's not easy on her. Last time she saw you -- well, you know," Angel said awkwardly. "Give her a little time to get used to the idea of you being back."

"Give *myself* a little time," he said, shaking his head.

"Do you remember anything?"

Funny how everyone kept asking him the same questions. He wondered how long that would go on for. "Not really. One minute I knew I was dead, the next I was waking up in Wesley's kitchen. Nothing in between."

"You feel okay? Should we have a doctor check you out?"

Doyle shrugged. "I'm okay. Feel like I could sleep for a couple of days, maybe, but otherwise all right."

There was a noise from the hallway and he looked around to see Cordelia and Wesley returning. Cordelia had an expression on her face that he remembered well -- stubbornness mixed with pride, her chin set with determination and a glint in her eyes that dared him to speak of her sudden disappearance.

Well, no one had ever claimed he was smart. "You okay, Princess?"

"I'm fine."

She didn't look fine -- she looked exhausted. "Maybe you should go home and get some rest," Doyle suggested. "S'been a long day. Angel can fill me in on what's been going on and -- you and me, we can talk tomorrow, yeah?"

Cordelia nodded slowly. "Where're you going to stay?" she asked him, as if she expected him to have an answer.

"I kinda figured the hotel," Angel said. "Plenty of room."

"Or you're more than welcome to stay here," Wesley offered. "The sofa converts into a bed, and it's quite late..." He checked his watch. "It's after midnight."

The thought of being able to lie down and close his eyes and just drift away was so enticing that it swept over him like a wave, leaving Doyle feeling wrung out and heavy-limbed. "Could probably sleep," he admitted.

Angel patted his shoulder. "Then how 'bout you do that. We can all talk tomorrow. Now that you're here, there's no hurry."

He wasn't so tired that he missed the glance that Angel and Wesley exchanged, but he was tired enough to let it go without comment. "You sure you don't mind me crashing here? Because I can go with Angel. Just -- "

"No, of course not," Wesley said, to his relief. "Let me get some blankets and things."

Not that the idea of staying here wasn't a little bit, well, strange. He didn't know Wesley -- although oddly his apartment felt familiar already -- and on the one hand, going wherever Angel went seemed like the thing to do. But he was so tired that the thought of leaving this spot was almost more than he could handle.

Cordelia was looking at him with a whole range of expressions mixed up on her face: uncertainty, wonder, and something that he liked to think might be happiness. He stood up and moved toward her hesitantly. "You sure you're okay?"

She nodded again, her eyes searching his. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." He wanted to touch her something fierce. "Can I -- ?" He made a little gesture with his hand and she must have understood because she stepped forward into his arms almost immediately, her chin nestled against his shoulder like they were meant to fit together. "Maybe Angel'll take you home," he said into her hair. "Make sure you get there safe."

He looked at Angel, who said, "Sure I will."

Doyle would have been happy to stand there all night, just holding Cordelia, but after another moment he forced himself to release her and step back a little. His hand brushed over her cheek lightly. "Get some rest, Princess. I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay." She backed toward the door like she wasn't sure she wanted to take her eyes off of him.

Angel said, "'Night," somewhat reluctantly as Wesley came back into the room with a pillow and an armful of sheets and blankets.

"Shall we ring you in the morning?" Wesley asked. "Or just come in to the office at the usual time?"

"Come in late," Angel suggested. "You know, take your time. Whenever."

"All right, then. Good night." Wesley went over and dead-bolted the door behind them as they left, and then came back over and bent as if to take the cushions off the couch.

"You don't need to do that," Doyle said, stopping him. "I'm tired enough I'm not gonna notice where I sleep. I'll just sack out here on the couch, like it is."

Wesley nodded and straightened back up, separating out the blankets and pillow from the sheets, which he set down over on the chair across the room.

Doyle sat down and started to untie his shoes, struggling with the knotted laces. He could remember having tied them that morning -- which granted was two years ago -- with fingers that had been clumsy with the night before's drink. He'd done a little *too* good a job. "Ya think they have classes in this kind of thing?"

"Untying shoes?"

He glanced up. "No. Getting back into the swing of things, after coming back from the dead. Though on second thought, s'probably more likely that they have classes on untying shoes." He finally managed to get the second one undone, and toed them off, setting them neatly next to the couch. "Thanks," he said. "For letting me stay the night. And, you know, the whole spell thing."

"Er... you're welcome." Wesley looked uncomfortable, like he was about as used to accepting thanks as Doyle was to giving it. He gestured at the pillow and blankets. "Is there anything else you might need?"

"No - I think a few hours sleep will set me right. Though I s'pose that might just be wishful thinking." Doyle yawned hugely and shoved the pillow down under his elbow.

Wesley took a step toward the hallway. "All right, then. I'm going to go to bed, myself. If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me."

_Right,_ Doyle thought, but he nodded anyway. "Yeah. G'night, then."

"Good night."

He'd thought he'd find the quiet peaceful, that he'd have some time to just lie there and think and sort of take everything in. But as it turned out, he closed his eyes for a second, tried to force them back open, and then he was falling into sleep. He had just enough presence of mind left to be afraid that he might not wake up again -- that this was some weird kind of death-dream, like your life flashing before your eyes -- before everything went dark and still.

* * * * * 

Doyle woke gradually, over a period of time that was probably a lot longer than it seemed. First there was a distant sound that seemed familiar -- water running, like rain, only harder. Then more darkness, floating, sleep so heavy that his limbs seemed to be sinking into the surface beneath him. Later, more sounds -- closer, but less regular -- small clinks and clanks, and then gradually the smell of food cooking. From his fog, he heard as well as felt his stomach rumble in response.

He opened his eyes slowly, and even more slowly his brain told him where he was. Wesley's apartment. He'd been dead, and now he was alive.

Not to mention hungry.

Sitting up, Doyle knuckled the sleep from his eyes and yawned hugely, then startled as Wesley poked his head around from the kitchen.

"You're up," Wesley said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Must have," Doyle agreed. "Don't remember anything after you left." Now that he thought about it, the idea of Wesley walking through the room while he was asleep was a little weird. His stomach growled again.

"Are you hungry at all?" Wesley asked. "I thought you might be, since you didn't have anything last night, and, well, obviously it's been some time since you've eaten. But if you're not, that's -- "

Doyle threw the blanket off of his legs and sat up, interrupting the flow of words. "I'm starved, and it smells fantastic. Where do I sign up?"

"This way," Wesley said, and Doyle followed him into the kitchen, noting that the marks on the floor had been wiped away. "Here, sit down. Coffee?"

"That'd be great -- thanks." His stomach growled again as Wesley set a mug down in front of him and he grinned, embarrassed. "I think my body might think it really has been two years since my last meal." A plate loaded with a cooked breakfast was set down next to the mug -- eggs, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms. "Man. You really treat yourself right."

Wesley put a somewhat-less-full plate down on the other side of the table and sat opposite him. "Actually, there's a grocer just down the street that delivers. I called them earlier and had them bring some things by."

"What time is it?" Doyle asked, just before cramming a huge mouthful of food into his mouth.

"Just a little after ten," Wesley said. "I spoke with Cordelia at about nine and we agreed that it was best to let you sleep in, if you were able to. Get your energy back."

Doyle nodded and swallowed. "You could have gotten me up earlier."

"It wasn't necessary. Cordelia's gone to get you some clothes and things this morning, and we'll meet her at the office after you've had a chance to shower, or... anything else you need to take care of."

He cut a sausage in half and stabbed it with his fork. "Yeah, clothes. Hadn't thought of that. Guess I'm lucky I came back wearing anything at all, huh?"

Wesley looked down at his plate, and Doyle thought there just might have been the faintest pink tinge to the Brit's cheeks that hadn't been there before. "You might have been... cold," he said delicately. "Although you certainly could have borrowed some of my things in the interim. Our differing heights notwithstanding."

"Thanks. I mean... for everything. You really didn't have to go to all this trouble for someone you don't even know."

"I almost feel as if I know you," Wesley explained. "I've heard a great deal about you -- most of it in the past few days, of course, but also before that. When I arrived in L.A., it was your shoes I had to fill."

"Must have been uncomfortable," Doyle said, trying to joke because for some reason he felt uncomfortable with the idea. "What with my feet being smaller than yours, and all."

"It was... exceedingly difficult." Wesley spoke the words as if they were hard to admit to. "You'd just died -- gone out a hero in a blaze of glory, as it were -- and I, well... let's just say that I received less than a warm welcome. After Cordelia kissed me, at least."

Doyle just about spit his mouthful of coffee out onto the table. "Cordy \-- kissed you?"

Wesley nodded. "Yes -- but not like that, of course. She was under the impression that you kissing her was what had passed the visions on to her, and she was attempting to rid herself of them in the same fashion."

Even so, Doyle wasn't sure he liked the idea of it.

"I believe she kissed Angel, as well," Wesley supplied helpfully.

"I think," Doyle said, slowly, "That this coming back to life thing isn't gonna go quite as smoothly as I hoped it would."

Wesley was looking at him. "You have feelings for her," he observed.

"Well, yeah, of course I do. I mean, have you *looked* at her? And she's, you know... brave, and strong, and... well. She was pretty much everything I was looking for -- and I hadn't even known I was looking."

"I understand." Wesley had an expression on his face that led Doyle to believe that maybe he really *did* understand, and then he realized why that might be.

"You have feelings for her, too," he said.

Wesley immediately straightened in his chair. "Not at all. That is to say... I did once. As you say, she has... many admirable qualities in a woman, and she's very attractive. But our relationship now is strictly as friends. We're close -- at least, I like to think we are -- but there's no romantic interest there. On either of our parts."

Doyle believed him, despite the quick way he'd jumped to protest. "Yeah. Well, that's good to know." He ate another couple of bites of food and sipped at his coffee, the two of them sitting quietly in companionable silence for a few minutes. Finally, he pushed his chair back an inch or so and nodded. "Suppose we'd better get ourselves on the road, then, yeah?"

"Certainly."

They piled the dishes to soak in the sink -- Wesley insisted that he'd do them later, that he preferred to go in to the office rather than take the time with them -- and drove through L.A. to a huge, slightly crumbling building that was, apparently, the new office of Angel Investigations. New to Doyle, at any rate.

Cordelia was sitting on a couch in the lobby, her feet tucked up onto the cushion and a book in her hand, although she looked for all the world like someone who wasn't actually reading. When Doyle and Wesley entered the hotel she glanced up, and then her face lit up with a relieved smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She set the book down beside her and got up.

"Hey," she said. "You made it. Way to make people not worry."

Doyle was warmed by the idea that she'd be worried about him, until he saw the look in her eyes. Then he felt nothing but guilt. "Sorry. We didn't -- "

"No," Cordelia said, making a waving gesture with her hand. "No, it's not you. I mean it *is* you, just... it's already been one of those days, you know?"

"I thought you got to go shopping. Woulda thought that'd make it a good day automatically."

Cordelia gave him a tense smile. "Yeah. The stuff I got you's back in Wes' office. Do you want to -- oh." She stopped as a man Doyle had never seen in his life emerged from a room behind her, his face guarded.

"Doyle," Wesley said formally, "This is Charles Gunn. He works with us. Gunn, this is Doyle."

Gunn, who was taller than Angel with shoulders that most men would have envied, nodded at him. "Hey. How's it going?"

"Okay, I guess. I mean, other than the general sense of confusion and lost time." Doyle wasn't sure what to make of this guy.

"Cool." Gunn glanced at Wesley and then said, "Right. So, Wes, you want to help me with that thing?"

Wesley nodded and gestured vaguely off to his left. "We're just going to go... take care of... something. But if you need anything, don't hesitate to let us know."

Cordelia's expression was one of uncertainty and mild annoyance. "Subtle, aren't they?" she asked, reaching out and taking Doyle's hand.

"Yeah," he said. "Suppose they could have held up a big sign that said 'Just leaving the two of you alone now' though. That woulda been more obvious."

"Well, come on, I want to show you what I bought you." She towed him into a back room that was clearly an office -- desks, bookcases, filing cabinets. "I had to do the best I could about the size, but trust me, you're going to look *so* much better in these things than in that awful stuff you used to wear."

"Hey! I liked that stuff." His protest was mild enough, and he looked on obligingly as Cordelia held up pairs of slacks and shirts for his approval.

"Only because you were crazy," Cordelia told him. "And look, here's a jacket, and I would have got shoes but I *really* couldn't guess at the size there, and..."

A calm voice interrupted her steady stream of words, and Doyle looked up to see Angel standing in the doorway. "Cordy. You need to tell him."

Doyle looked from Angel to Cordelia and then back to Angel again. "Tell me what?"

When he turned his gaze to Cordelia again, she was looking at the leather jacket she was holding in her hands. "Oh. Well, see..."

Doyle stepped closer and gently took the jacket from her, draping it over the back of the chair she was standing next to. God, if Cordy was avoiding telling him something -- Cordy, who was always so direct -- then it had to be bad. "Something you need to share, Princess?"

She shook her head mutely, her eyes huge in her pale face.

"Cordelia, if you don't tell him, I will." Angel was still calm as he came further into the room, but Doyle could tell that the cool exterior was hiding something darker and more complex.

Cordy nodded then, and took a deep breath. "There's, um... well, there's a reason we brought you back."

Doyle smiled encouragingly at her, keeping his tone light so that she'd know it was okay. "What? Are you sayin' you didn't want me back just because of my handsome face?"

"I'm... the visions are..." She threw a pleading look at Angel. "I can't. You do it."

"Sit down," Angel told her, kindly, and she moved the bag of clothes that was on the chair to the floor and did so. "You too," he said, gesturing at Doyle. He waited until Doyle had perched himself on the edge of the desk.

"Okay, I'm sitting. So what's the story?" Doyle crossed his arms in what he hoped was a no-nonsense sort of pose.

"The story is, the visions were never meant for humans," Angel said. "And the Powers That Be weren't doing Cordy any favors by letting her get them. She needs them out of her head, and fast."

Cordelia just sat there, waiting for Angel to continue.

"Or what?" Doyle asked, slowly.

"Or they're going to kill her." Angel met his gaze, the concern in his eyes speaking to Doyle loud and clear.

He didn't even have time to think before he was up and out of his chair, moving to kneel on the floor in front of Cordy, taking her hands in his. "Don't worry, Princess. We're gonna take care of this. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

She smiled at him tremulously. "I know." God, she was so pale. Doyle reached up to cup the side of her face gently and she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

"So how do we do it?" Doyle asked Angel quietly, without taking his eyes off of Cordelia. "Same way I gave them to her?"

"We don't know," Angel admitted. "Wes thinks that might work, but we just... don't know."

"Well, no more waiting around." Doyle slid one hand back around Cordelia's neck, pulling her down to meet him. The sense that it really had been a long time that he'd been gone intensified as he kissed her -- in his memory it had been such a short time since their first kiss, but this still felt unfamiliar, like his body had forgotten it. She tasted sweet, and when he pulled back the hope shining in her eyes tore at his heart.

"What do you think?" Cordelia asked.

"I think... I think I don't know enough about it." Doyle looked at her, and then up at Angel. "There some kind of spell for this?"

"You mean to tell if it worked?" Angel shook his head. "I don't think so."

Cordelia sighed and leaned in closer to Doyle again, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Should I be apologizing?" she asked.

"What for?"

"For not bringing you back until I needed something from you? Or maybe for bringing you back at all? It's not like we asked you how you felt about it."

"Not like you could," Doyle pointed out. "But no. No apologies needed. Being back, it's... good. Great." He ran his fingers through her hair again, soaking up the feel of her body pressed against his own, and couldn't help but meet Angel's worried eyes over her shoulder.

"You might not think so a few days from now, if this worked and you've got the visions back," Cordelia said quietly. "I don't remember you being too crazy about them."

"No, but they weren't going to kill me. I'll take one every day for the rest of my life if it means you gettin' to *have* a rest of your life." The thought of her dying, and because of something he'd done, no matter how accidentally, was terrifying. He'd find a way to take the visions back, if this hadn't worked. He leaned back and took her face between his palms. "Hey, this is a hotel, right? Why don't you go lie down for a while, get some rest? You look exhausted."

"Which means 'old,'" Cordelia said with a small grin, but she got up and headed for the door. "And you're the one who should be tired, after coming back from the dead."

"Me? I'm fine," Doyle lied.

"Wake me up if you need me," she said, and disappeared through the doorway.

Doyle and Angel stood there looking at each other without saying anything, and after a minute Wesley came into the room.

"She's gone upstairs," Wesley said, unnecessarily.

"And she looks like hell. How long has she been like this?" Doyle shifted his weight and then sat back down in the chair Cordy had abandoned.

Wesley and Angel exchanged a glance.

"About a month," Wesley said, finally. "It's been a gradual decline, of course... it's only in the past month or so that it's been this bad. Did you...?"

It was obvious what he was asking. "Yeah. Don't know if it worked."

"No. It seems that when she... got them from you, she wasn't aware of it immediately, either. Although we weren't sure if it was because of the generalized trauma of the situation." Wesley looked like he was trying to be clinical, but Doyle thought he could see something uncomfortable in the other man's stance.

"How did you find out that the visions were gonna kill her?" Doyle asked, not sure if he really wanted to know, but feeling like he needed to.

Angel looked at Wesley.

"Tell me," Doyle said, as Wes' blue eyes met his.

* * * * * 

One moment Wesley and Cordelia were putting some books back on a shelf -- she holding the small stack, he taking them one at a time and sliding them back where they belonged. The next minute Cordelia made the strangled gasping sound that sometimes preceded a vision, and Wesley had just enough time to whirl and grab onto her. The books dropped, forgotten, onto the floor as he sank to his knees, doing his best to support her as she went down.

She was silent, her body twitching in his arms, and then the vision was over and she was completely limp. Completely, totally limp.

"Angel!" Wesley called out hoarsely, and Angel was there so quickly that Wesley thought he must have heard Cordelia and already been on the way before he'd spoken.

Angel's hand was against Cordelia's cheek. "Cordy? Come on, wake up. Cordy?"

"I don't think she's ever lost consciousness before," Wesley said anxiously.

"Did she hit her head?" Angel glanced up at him and then returned his attention to Cordelia's face.

Wesley shook his own head. "No, I caught her on the way down. Whatever this is, it's internal."

"Damn it," Angel said. "Cordy?" When there was still no response, he gently lifted her into his arms and stood, heading for the nearest couch.

Wesley started to follow, and then said, "I'll get a cold cloth," and deterred his course toward the bathroom.

He came back to find Cordelia laid out on the sofa, Angel kneeling on the floor next to her, holding one of her hands in both of his. "Cordy? Come on, it's over. Wake up."

Laying the dampened cloth across her forehead, Wesley smoothed her hair back from her face and said, "Cordelia? Can you hear me?"

For a moment there was no response, and then she moaned softly and shifted on the couch. Her eyes fluttered open and met Angel's. "Ow," she said.

"Yeah, no kidding." Angel's voice was light, but Wesley could hear the concern in it. "Just take it easy."

Cordelia, ignoring sound advice as usual, struggled to sit up, so Wesley moved to help her and sat down beside her in case she needed someone to lean against. "Do you remember what you saw?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh my god," she said quickly, pressing her fingers against her temples and leaning forward slightly. "How long was I out? If it's too late -- oh I just *knew* this was going to happen some day..."

"You were only out for a minute," Angel reassured her, one hand on her back.

"You've gotta go, Angel... now," Cordelia choked out. "On the west side, near that donut place Gunn likes... a vampire's going to kill a woman and her little boy. The Powers That Be are cutting it really close on this one -- you have to hurry. *Go.*" Her voice was tense and strained.

Angel nodded and got to his feet. "I'm going. It'll be fine." He exchanged a look with Wesley over her bowed head. "Wes'll stay here with you."

"I'm fine," she protested.

"You will be," Angel assured her, and headed for the door. "I'll be back soon."

They could hear him taking something from the weapons cabinet, and then the soft sound as the front door closed behind him. As soon as he was clearly gone, Cordelia turned slightly to face Wesley and curled her legs up underneath her, resting her cheek on the back of the couch.

"You're not fine," Wesley said quietly, mindful of the splitting headache she probably had.

She looked at him seriously and then asked, just as quietly, "If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Angel?"

"Cordelia, I -- "

"*Please,*" Cordelia said. Her eyes were desperate.

"I won't lie to him," Wesley said slowly. "But I'll do my best not to tell him. I'm sorry, that's the most I can promise you."

She nodded slightly, her gaze somewhat unfocused as she stared right through him.

"It's all right," he said, reaching out and running his fingers through her hair. He waited, and when she still didn't speak, he finally asked, "What is it that you wanted to tell me?"

Cordelia spoke as if each word needed to be forced out. "I didn't... that wasn't the first time."

Suspecting that he knew what she was speaking of, but needing the clarification, he said, "What wasn't?"

"The first time I passed out after a vision," Cordelia answered, confirming his fears. "The last one -- the one I had at home? A couple of nights ago? It was the same." Now that she had begun, the words seemed to rush from her. "They're getting worse. What if I pass out *during* one and I don't see what the Powers are trying to show me? Or I don't wake up in time to tell Angel who needs help?" She glanced at him and Wesley squeezed her shoulder, trying to offer some comfort.

"It'll be all right. We'll figure something out, don't you worry."

Minutes passed. Wesley thought about the books he had that might offer some information -- he'd been through most of them before without much luck, but a more careful examination might unearth something more useful -- and remembered that Lorne still had them. After the anagogic demon's attempt to read Cordelia during the Wolfram and Hart debacle, he'd asked Wesley if he could borrow anything that might explain the connection between Cordelia and the Powers That Be. Wesley still wasn't sure what it was he was looking for -- perhaps just a better understanding of the visions -- but obviously he'd need to speak with Lorne about getting the books back.

Cordelia was relaxed on the sofa next to him now, her breathing steady, his hand still resting on her shoulder. Wesley was beginning to think that she'd fallen asleep when she sighed and sat up. "I'm okay," she said, and the stubborn set was back to her upper lip.

"No, it's quite clear that you're not," Wesley said. "And now that I know otherwise, you needn't continue the charade. With me, at any rate," he added quickly. "Something needs to be done."

"I know." Cordelia's hand reached out and covered his. Her expression was troubled. "Question is... what?"

* * * * * 

"And so that was when we -- *I* -- first realized that there was something seriously wrong," Wesley finished explaining, with an apologetic look at Angel.

Doyle wondered how and when Angel had found out, but decided to leave that story for another time. "So what do we do now?" he asked. "Just wait for the next vision? What if the next one's the one that..." _kills her_ , he thought, but didn't let himself say.

Wesley was pacing -- Doyle could feel waves of tension radiating off of him. "Perhaps we could get Lorne over here to do a reading? He might be able to tell. If it hasn't worked yet, there are a few spells that might be modified to achieve the transfer -- but as Doyle says, time may be of the essence."

"Good idea." Angel said, and turned to Doyle. "Lorne's the one that figured out what was going on with Cordy in the first place. He... reads people's destinies. Kinda like seeing the future -- possible futures."

"He'll be able to take a look and see which one of us has got the visions, is that what you mean?"

"Yeah, basically. I'll give him a call, see when he can get over here." Angel went out into the lobby, leaving Doyle alone with Wesley.

"Sorry about this," Doyle said.

"For... what, exactly?" Wesley looked confused.

"Seems like you stepped in and had to start picking up the mess I made," Doyle explained, rubbing the back of his neck.

Wesley took a step closer, hesitantly, and then moved over to lean on the edge of the desk. "What's happening now is *not* your responsibility. You shouldn't blame yourself."

"Who should I blame then?" Doyle knew he sounded bitter. That wasn't anything new. "I was the one who deserved the visions in the first place -- not her. She *never* should have had to deal with this."

Wesley still looked worried, but there was something else in his eyes -- a kind of steely determination that seemed to fit him, despite his bookish appearance. "She won't for much longer, one way or another," he said. "If this didn't work, we'll find something that will."

"A spell?"

"Yes." Wesley gestured at a pile of books over on top of a bookcase. There were scraps of paper sticking out of most of them, clearly temporary bookmarks. "I've done a great deal of research, and there are a number of spells that might do the trick. It's only a matter of narrowing it down to the ones most likely to be successful."

Doyle nodded, the reality of the situation sinking in slowly. "I can't believe this is happening."

Wesley looked at him, then moved over to the chair that Doyle himself had been sitting in earlier. "It must be very overwhelming," he said sympathetically. "To have so much happen at once..."

"And after so much time of nothing happening," Doyle agreed. He was struck again by how blue Wesley's eyes were. He wondered if the glasses made them seem more intense, or if taking them off would, and for some reason his hands itched to do it so that he could find out. Uncertain, he cleared his throat and glanced down. "You think someone should go check on her?"

There was a little shuffle near the door, and a slender young woman peered around the frame, blinking owlishly behind her own glasses. "Hi Wesley," she said, her eyes skating over Doyle like he was something much fiercer than he actually was. "Um... Cordelia's upstairs. Just in case you were wondering."

Doyle wondered if everyone who came into the room was going to report the same information.

"Yes, we know. She's going to try to get some rest." Wesley stood up. "Fred, this is Doyle."

"I kinda thought," she said, looking at him again very briefly and then ducking her head, her long hair falling over her face. "Angel said that you were back when he got home last night. Home to the hotel, I mean. Since the hotel's his home. And um, mine too."

Wesley had an expression of sympathy on his face, but he didn't seem surprised at Fred's babbling, so Doyle had to assume it was normal. "Doyle, this is Fred -- er, Winifred Burkle."

Standing up and offering a hand to shake might send her running in the opposite direction. Instead Doyle nodded at her and offered her a friendly grin. "Nice to meet you. So you're helping the helpless too?"

Fred laughed nervously. "Um... not exactly. I was sort of a... rescue project. After the fact." She looked at Wesley hopefully and another strand of hair fell loose from its haphazard arrangement. "So did you try it?"

Wesley glanced at Doyle before answering. "They kissed, yes. Angel's gone to call Lorne to ask if..."

Angel appeared behind Fred, who twitched nervously. "He says yes. He'll be over in a couple of hours. Soon as some delivery he's waiting on gets there."

"We could take her over there?" Doyle suggested, anxious to do something, anything.

"I'd imagine at this point she needs the rest as much as she needs to find out," Wesley said gently. "I hardly think an hour or two will make much of a difference."

Doyle took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, so what do we do in the meantime? I mean, we shouldn't just be sitting around, right?"

Angel moved around Fred carefully, like he knew it might alarm her, and came further into the room. "He's right," he said, more to Wesley than anyone else. "Fill us in on the research, at least?"

Adjusting his glasses, Wesley went over and got the pile of books he'd indicated before, bringing them over to the desk. "I've marked the pages that are relevant," he said, opening one book in illustration. "Of course there are some that are a bit more relevant than others -- "

"Nice and Orwellian of them," Doyle murmured, and was surprised when Wesley shot him a small grin instead of a look of irritation.

" -- but these are the ones I've narrowed it down to," Wesley finished. "I know it seems like a lot -- nearly a dozen still -- but initially there were over thirty, so we've made progress."

"*You* have," Angel told Wesley, clapping him on the shoulder.

Wesley smiled and adjusted his shirt collar, looking self-conscious. "We're a team," he said. "I can't take all the credit."

Fred was hovering behind Angel. "Wesley always does that," she explained to Doyle. "He sort of has this thing about taking compliments."

It was similar enough to what Cordy had said the night before that Doyle filed it away for future reference.

"All right," Wesley said. "Now why don't you all let me sit down and go over this again, see if I can't eliminate some more of the current possibilities. As Doyle says, might as well keep busy."

"That keeps *you* busy," Doyle pointed out. "What about the rest of us?"

He felt Angel's arm on his elbow, guiding him toward the door as Fred scuttled out into the lobby in front of them. "We get out of his way and let him work," Angel said.

"He doesn't like to be interrupted," Fred confided in her soft drawl, then looked alarmed and started to back up the stairs. "Um... I'm just gonna go to my room."

"What's with her?" Doyle asked once she was gone.

"Fred? She's... a little nervous."

"You can say that again."

Angel was watching Doyle. "She has her reasons. Got sucked through a portal into another dimension, spent like five years as a slave. She's been back a couple of months, but... well. She's... adjusting."

Doyle snorted. "Yeah, well... not like we'd know anything about that."

"You have *no* idea," Angel said. "So. You want me to fill you in on what's been going on?"

Moving over to the couch, Doyle sat down. "Yeah. Tell me *everything.*"

* * * * * 

Wesley sighed and put the last book on top of the taller of the two piles to his right. He'd managed to narrow the field of potential spells down to three -- admittedly a marked improvement -- but now that he was there, he wasn't sure which of the remaining was the best option.

Getting up to shelve the books that had been eliminated, he ran the three spells that were left over in his mind again. At this point he was starting to wonder if his judgment was sound. He hadn't been getting enough sleep, and repeatedly going over the same information again and again was starting to take its toll, leaving him distracted and increasing his self-doubt.

Of course, Doyle was an added distraction that he hadn't been counting on. He'd expected to find the man, well, annoying, for lack of a better word. From the way Doyle had been described, Wesley had been left thinking that he'd be the sort of person that rubbed him the wrong way, and he'd also thought that some amount of smugness was to be expected. Instead, Doyle was earnest and helpful and essentially nothing like Wesley had anticipated.

The last thing he'd expected was to find himself attracted to Doyle.

Slight build, sharp green eyes that seemed to see into him in ways that were alternately hope-inducing and nearly disturbing, Doyle wasn't the sort of man that Wesley had found himself attracted to in the past. Nothing about him was as expected. Added up, it was resulting in Wesley finding it more difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand than he'd have guessed.

Clearly, coffee was the solution. He went over to pour another cup from the pot, emptying it, but before he could take a sip he heard a change in the timbre of the voices in the lobby.

Wesley carried his coffee to the office doorway and looked out.

Lorne was wearing a splendidly-gaudy mauve jacket and a hopeful smile. "Here I am, ready to read the helpless. Only where's our little peach bud?"

Angel nodded toward the second floor as Wesley joined them. "She's still sleeping. Hang on, I'll go get her." He started up the staircase.

Doyle was watching Lorne with an expression that was difficult for Wesley to translate, although he hadn't forgotten that Doyle had issues with his demon heritage. Perhaps he had issues with other demons as well? "I'm quite a bit closer to finding a spell that might work," Wesley said, hoping to distract the other man if, indeed, he needed distracting.

"Yeah?" Doyle grinned at him. "Good. If you need any help, just say the word. Not that I've got a lot of experience with that sort of thing, but..." He turned his attention back to Lorne. "So, you can just... look at Cordy and see if she's still got the visions?"

"It's not so much about looking as it is about singing," Lorne said. "You hum me a little ditty, and with any luck I'll be able to see whatever's there for the seeing."

Doyle looked startled. "You can read *me?*"

"I can read pretty much anyone, sweet cheeks. There've been a few exceptions, but they aren't the kind of thing you want to talk about in polite company." Lorne spread his hands in invitation. "You want to sing? You go right ahead."

"Okay." Doyle cleared his throat nervously. "Uh... what should I sing?" He shook his head. "Never mind." He immediately launched into a tune that Wesley didn't recognize, his voice low and his accent somewhat smoothed out around the edges. His voice was pleasing to the ear, and his nervousness at the attention was endearing.

Wesley watched Lorne's face for some reaction, and he didn't like what he saw.

"You can stop," Lorne interrupted, before Doyle had even gotten through the first round of the chorus. He reached out and patted Doyle's shoulder in something like sympathy. "You're gonna get them back, I can see that plain as the green nose on my face."

Doyle looked as if he weren't sure how to feel about that, but then blinked as he obviously realized the meaning behind what Lorne had just said. "But I don't have them now? Is that what you're saying?"

"Sorry, friend."

Before they could get any further into the conversation, Angel and Cordelia came down the stairs.

Cordelia reached the landing and stopped. "Okay, what's with the long faces?" She blinked and rubbed one arm with her opposite hand. "Oh. It didn't work, did it?"

"I can read you to be sure, if you want me to, doll. But no, looks like we've got to step sideways until we find another path that leads to the Emerald City."

Wesley watched as Doyle climbed the stairs to the landing to stand with Cordelia and Angel. "Don't worry, Princess," Doyle said, turning to glance at Wesley. "Wesley's gonna pick a spell and we'll give it a shot. And if that one doesn't work, we'll try another one, and then another, until we find one that does."

"Okay, but first I want some lunch," Cordelia said, making the effort to rally herself that Wesley and Angel had become all to accustomed to. She started down the few steps into the lobby, giving Wesley an attempt at a smile. "And promise me that none of these spells are the kind where I have to drink demon poo or anything?"

"If the spell says you've gotta drink demon... you know, then you'll do it," Angel said, as he and Doyle came down into the lobby too and Cordelia went over to rifle through the pile of menus they kept under the counter. "Because we're -- "

Wesley stood frozen for what felt like forever, but was probably only a heartbeat or two, as Angel suddenly broke off and flew around the counter to grab onto Cordelia just in time as she spasmed in the throes of a vision. Her scream sounded shrill and defeated as she writhed in Angel's arms, the vampire lowering her to the floor and cradling her carefully, making sure that she didn't hurt herself.

He could hear Doyle cursing under his breath as they both moved to where Cordelia and Angel were, and he was aware of Lorne just behind them. Cordelia's hands were pressed to her temples, almost clawing at them as if she might be able to forcibly remove the visions from her skull physically.

She shrieked once more and went limp, unconscious.

Doyle was on his knees beside Angel, and Wesley sank down to his as well.

"Jesus," Doyle breathed. "Christ, is it always like that?"

"More or less," Wesley answered absently, chafing Cordelia's wrist gently. "She seems to be breathing fairly normally at least. Cordelia?"

Reaching a trembling hand out to smooth back her hair, Doyle asked, "What if she doesn't wake up?"

Angel glanced at Doyle. "Don't say that. She's going to wake up, and we're going to get the visions out of her and back into you where they belong."

Turning to look over his shoulder, Wesley asked, "Lorne, would you get a damp cloth and find her purse? I'd imagine she's going to need her painkillers when she wakes up." He looked at the obviously-distraught Doyle with more reassurance than he felt. "She's going to wake up," he said.

They continued to speak to her gently, and when Lorne returned with the cold washcloth, Wesley lay it across her forehead.

"Cordy? Come on, wake up. If you don't wake up in time to tell us what you saw you're going to be really pissed off at yourself." Angel's voice sounded shaky, and Wesley wondered how exactly it had come to pass that they all revolved around Cordelia Chase like planets to her brilliant sun.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes, Cordelia stirred and opened her eyes with a small whimper. "Pills?" she requested hoarsely. No one said a word until she'd taken them.

"Guess Lorne wasn't kidding when he said the kiss thing didn't work," she managed, looking at Doyle.

"Guess not," Doyle said, very softly. "Just take it easy there, yeah?"

"I'm okay," Cordelia said, even as a tear trickled from the corner of her eye and she reached up to knuckle it away. "God. How long was I -- ?"

"Not long," Wesley answered quickly. "Do you remember what you saw?"

"Yeah." With Angel's help, Cordelia sat up, the vampire still supporting most of her weight. "Some guys working in the sewer, being attacked by some kind of slime demons. What is it with demons and slime, anyway?" Her normal tone was clearly forced, her face pale. "Um, near Piedmont and Vine. There should be a sewer entrance there."

"There is," Angel confirmed. Ignoring Cordelia's squeak of protest, he got to his feet with her in his arms and carried her past Lorne and over to the couch, setting her down there. "Lorne? You stay with her while we take care of this?"

"Sure," Lorne said, going over to sit with Cordelia. "Can I get you anything, pumpkin?"

"A new head?" Cordelia asked faintly, with a wry grimace. "No, I'm okay. Just..." She waited until Angel and the others were looking at her before finishing her sentence. "Be careful? They looked... big. I don't know, I don't have a good feeling about this one."

"Yeah well, the Powers That Be aren't about good feelings, are they?" Doyle quipped, looking at Cordelia with what Wesley thought was sympathy and guilt. "You need a hand?" he asked Angel.

"Always," Angel said, just as Gunn appeared from around the corner.

"Vision?" the big man asked.

"Vision," Wesley said. "Slime demons in the sewer."

"Man, it's always gotta be the sewer," Gunn complained, going over to the weapons' cabinet and taking out his axe. "I think we should get hazard pay every time we have to get our boots all mucked up." Wesley could see the other man looking at Cordelia surreptitiously, but Gunn obviously had better sense than to enquire about her health in front of her.

Doyle accepted the weapon that Angel handed him, and then Angel tossed the crossbow to Wesley. "You guys take topside," Angel said, heading for the basement door. "I'll meet you there."

Wesley tucked a handful of bolts into his pocket and nodded at the front door. "You heard what the man said."

* * * * * 

Doyle was grateful for the few minutes of silence in Wesley's SUV. It'd been one thing to have the visions himself, and totally another to see Cordy having one. The guilt was... overwhelming. Truth be told, he was glad to get away from her, even though he suspected that he hated himself more for giving them to her than she ever would -- and that was probably saying a lot.

Wesley pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out.

"Over there," Gunn said, pointing to a sewer access.

The three of them went over to it. Doyle glanced around kind of nervously, but there weren't too many people around, and the ones that were didn't seem to have much interest in what they were up to. Gunn used a small crowbar to pry up the sewer cover, then tucked it into one belt loop before jumping down into the darkness.

"Age before beauty," Doyle said, offering to let Wesley go first, and then wincing as he realized this probably wasn't the best way to make strangers into friends.

Wesley didn't seem offended -- he just followed Gunn down into the sewers.

Muttering, "Haven't even been back a whole day and here I am, put to work already..." Doyle went after them, dropping down onto the damp cement floor and shaking his head as the smell became almost tangible. The air was thick with it -- heavy and sulfurous -- and Doyle had to start breathing through his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from puking. "God, I'd forgotten how much I hate this."

Wesley patted his shoulder. "You'll get used to it again soon enough, I'd imagine," he said. "Does anyone hear Angel?"

"No, but I can hear you," Angel's voice said from behind them, making Doyle jump. "You ever think it might be a good idea to try to be, oh, I don't know, *quiet?*"

When Wesley spoke again his voice was much softer. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize..."

Angel moved past Doyle and gave Wesley's upper arm a quick squeeze. "Wesley, I'm kidding. You think the guys working down here are whispering? Besides, you're the boss."

Doyle could almost feel Wesley's tension ease as Gunn started to follow Angel, and Wesley hesitated and then started to go after them too. "He thinks he's a real Cary Grant," he offered, as an explanation for Angel's behavior as he fell into step beside Wesley.

"I beg your pardon?" Wesley's eyebrows were raised in surprise.

"Funny. Like in 'Arsenic and Old Lace?'"

"Oh," Wesley relaxed again. Doyle thought it was no wonder that the guy was so thin, if this was the way he was on a daily basis -- all wound up, all the time. Made him want to... well, do something to help. "I thought you meant... er, something else."

"Though actually he's not far off," Doyle said thoughtfully. "You know Insanity doesn't just run through his family, it gallops."

Wesley chuckled softly. "I'm not sure you've any idea how apropos that is. Especially considering Drusilla."

"That's right, she's the daughter. Whoa, never gonna get used to that as a concept." Angel's stance up ahead faltered, clear to both of them even in the dim light, and Gunn, Doyle and Wesley all stopped as one, waiting to see what happened.

The sound of voices -- muted and casual, occasional -- some distance in front of them. Then, below it, a slithering sound like a huge snake. No, wetter. Like a huge snake slithering though a vat of pudding. Yeah, there was a nice image. Doyle inched his way forward another couple of inches, wanting to hear more clearly, and then, without even thinking about it, let his demon face slip out. Instantly his hearing improved by a noticeable margin. Exerting a huge amount of self-control, he avoided looking at Wesley or Gunn for their reactions.

"Now," Angel said, in something close to a growl, and ran forward and turned a corner that Doyle had only dimly been aware was there.

The rest of them followed on his heels, only to be nearly run over by a crowd of men in yellow hard hats and orange vests running in the opposite direction. Doyle was briefly separated from the others, and by the time he'd gotten himself straightened out, the battle was in full swing.

The slime demons were... well okay, slimy. They also bore a striking resemblance to giant snakes, if giant snakes had weird vestigial arms that didn't seem to work very well. His first thought sprang from his lips before he could finish it. "These things poisonous?" he shouted in Angel's general direction.

Angel leapt out of the way of a swinging tail and yelled back, "Probably!"

That was when Doyle realized that the tails had some sort of stingers on them. Great -- just what they needed.

Wesley and Gunn were fighting a second demon -- seemed like there were only two, so that was something in their favor, at least. He paused for only a second before joining them, deciding that Angel was more equipped to handle one of the things on his own than the humans were. Heck, if the stingers were poisonous, for all he knew they might not even affect Angel.

"You guys have a game plan?" he asked, as the creature's mouth darted in close to Gunn, who hacked at it.

"Kill it?" Gunn suggested.

"Right. Thanks." Doyle jumped to the side and rolled, trying to distract the thing's attention away from Wesley, who was trying to line up a shot with the crossbow. It got in a bit closer than he'd intended to let it, fangs flashing in the light from one of the abandoned workman's lanterns, and he shouted hoarsely and slashed at with his sword, wishing for a weapon with better balance.

The demon twitched and made a hissing sound, jerking its head abruptly around to face Wesley. Doyle caught a glimpse of something sticking out of its neck -- even as he clambered back to his feet -- and realized that Wesley had hit his mark. Guy knew how to shoot, that was for sure.

Gunn leapt in and chopped off one of the monster's little waving arms -- it made a hissing, shrieking noise this time, and whipped its head toward Gunn, snapping at him with sharp teeth. At the same time Gunn just about cut its lower jaw off with one strong swing of his axe, Doyle saw the back half of the creature snap forward, stinger aiming at Wesley, whose attention was focused on getting off another shot with the crossbow.

Without another thought, Doyle threw himself at Wesley, grabbing onto the other man and yanking him out of harm's way just as the stinger came slamming down with such force that the tip of it got embedded in the floor. By the time he glanced up to see what was happening, Angel had joined Gunn at the demon's head, which was actually lying on the floor and no longer connected to its body.

Doyle realized he was still holding onto Wesley's arm, and forced his fingers to let go.

"Thank you," Wesley said stiffly, moving a step away and releasing the tension in the crossbow's string.

Angel wiped the blood on his sword off on the demon's hide and came over. He reached out and fingered Doyle's sleeve thoughtfully. "Close call," he said, and it was only then that Doyle saw that the fabric of his shirt was torn.

"Yeah, well..." Doyle wasn't sure who to look at, so he looked for the first demon instead. It was dead, lying further down the tunnel. "See you took care of things," he told Angel.

"Yeah. You too." Angel's eyes moved from Doyle to Wesley and then back again, but all he said was, "Come on, let's get out of here."

* * * * * 

Wesley knew he was being unreasonable, but it was one of those situations in which he just couldn't help himself. Angel's earlier comment -- joking though it had been -- had distracted him, made it difficult to focus on the job at hand with any sort of confidence. And the fact that he'd nearly gotten himself killed -- and worse, that *Doyle,* newly back from the dead and a man without nearly the training he himself had, had been the one to rescue him... well, it rankled.

Not to mention the fact that it no doubt made him look a fool in Doyle's eyes.

He drove in silence back to the Hyperion, aware that the others were doing their best to make conversation that seemed natural even as his own reticence made them uncomfortable. He parked the car and went in without a word to any of them, but as soon as he saw Cordelia curled up on the couch next to Lorne, his anger and bitterness faded. When she saw him, she struggled to a sitting position, reaching a hand out toward him. "You okay?"

Going over to her and taking her hand, Wesley said, "It's all taken care of. No one was injured -- everyone's fine." He was surprised at the strength of her grip, not to mention the look in her eyes. "What's... Cordelia, are *you* all right?"

She nodded, and Lorne spoke for her. "A little while after you left, she thought she remembered something else. Something about you getting hurt?"

Angel, over near the weapons cabinet, said, "He would have, if it wasn't for Doyle."

Wesley couldn't look at Doyle, and it was easier not to look at Angel either. "Yes... but it all turned out well in the end."

To his relief, Doyle didn't seem interested in exploring the incident further. The smaller man came over and sat on Cordelia's other side as Lorne relinquished the spot, reaching to brush her hair back from her cheek. "Yeah, everybody's fine. And next we're gonna get those visions out of your head, and you're gonna be fine too."

Cordelia smiled. There were tension lines around her eyes and mouth, making her look older than she was, but she'd obviously recovered somewhat since the vision. "So what's the plan?" she asked Wesley. "Are we going to flip a coin, or what?"

Momentarily confused, Wesley quickly realized what she was referring to. "Not that that might not be as good a method as any, but let me look all three spells over one last time before we settle on that option."

Leaving Cordelia in the care of the others, Wesley went into the office and sat down, opening up the three books again and beginning to reread through each spell. The pressure to get this right on the first try was... well, rather overwhelming. He'd had enough failures in his life, and he wasn't prepared for this to be another. It wasn't until he heard someone clear his throat that he realized there was someone else in the room with him.

Wesley looked up and sighed. Of course it would have to be Doyle -- the rest of them knew him well enough to let him research in peace, especially when the situation was this grim. "Can I help you with something?" He knew he sounded remote and formal, and he wished that he didn't.

"I was kind of hoping I could help *you,*" Doyle said. "You know, do something? All this sittin' around and waiting is killing me." He grimaced at his obviously-inappropriate choice of phrasing. "I want to help."

"You've been back for less than twenty-four hours," Wesley pointed out. "I hardly think that qualifies as any appreciable amount of sitting around and waiting."

"Yeah, okay." Doyle shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Look... did I do something to piss you off? Because that'd probably be a record even for me. It usually takes me at least a couple of days before I start annoying people."

Wesley felt a smile slip out onto his face despite himself. The man was so self-deprecating. "No, of course you didn't do anything. Well, other than save me from myself, and although I'm grateful for that, I can't say that I'm overjoyed at the fact that it was necessary."

Doyle relaxed visibly. "Okay, I get that. Just... I thought we were getting off on a good foot there, you know? I'd hate to think I screwed it up so fast."

Wesley looked down at the spell he'd just finished reading, and then offered the book to Doyle slowly. The other man couldn't really help -- not at this point -- but surely there couldn't be any harm in letting him *think* he was being useful. "See what you think of this one," he said.

"Yeah, okay." Doyle took the book and perched himself on the edge of the chair he'd been sitting in earlier in the day, and Wesley went back to reading the other spells.

Every once in a while, he felt Doyle glance over at him.

* * * * * 

It'd taken more than an hour for Wesley to settle on the spell they were going to use, and now that the potential was imminent -- *again* -- Doyle was nervous. Okay, make that downright freaked. Not that he wouldn't do anything to make things right for Cordy -- it was mostly the not-knowing that caused the knot in the pit of his stomach. The knot that kept speaking up, loudly, for a drink.

"You're sure this is the one?" Angel asked, not for the first time.

"I'm sure," Wesley said firmly, although Doyle thought he could tell even from the brief time of knowing the man that he was putting on a front. "This spell is the one most likely to cause the desired transfer. And if it doesn't work, we'll try the next one."

Doyle prayed that wouldn't be necessary. He wasn't sure he could go through this again.

Fred was upstairs in her room -- not that that was a rarity, apparently -- and Gunn had gone home. Apparently the spell had some likelihood of magical backlash, and Wesley had thought it best to keep the number of people in the vicinity to a minimum.

Jesus, Doyle thought to himself. I'm even starting to sound like him.

"All right," Wesley said, handing a mortar and pestle over to Lorne. "I believe that's everything. Are you both ready?"

"Are you kidding? I've been ready for this for two years," Cordelia said.

Doyle took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Cordelia, you sit here. Doyle, here."

They sat where Wesley'd pointed, next to and facing each other, their thighs touching. Under other circumstances, Doyle would have been tempted to make an innuendo about their positioning, but considering the current situation he thought it was better to keep his big mouth shut.

The spell itself was... well okay, so maybe he didn't pay a hell of a lot of attention to it. Partly because he was nervous, and partly because it just wasn't his thing. Simple stuff he could handle -- throw some herbs on a fire, say a few words -- but spells of this caliber... they just weren't him.

Doyle closed his eyes.

He knew that there was chanting, and a circle, and a paste of herbs smeared onto both himself and Cordelia -- foreheads, wrists. More herbs were burning -- there see, that was the part he could have handled -- and they smelled pretty damned bad. Heavy, sickly-sweet.

The smoke made Doyle's throat burn, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a brilliant flash of light and to feel the wind knocked from him as if all the oxygen had left the room. Pain twisted in his brain like a dull knife, imprecise and tearing. He couldn't breathe, and he could feel his muscles twitching like he'd gotten some kind of electrical shock. Cordelia's eyes were on his own, round and scared, and he thought that maybe her hand was holding his, but he couldn't quite feel it.

His last conscious thought was that, if he had to die, he hoped to hell Wesley's spell had transfered the visions to him before he did.

* * * * * 

Doyle's first conscious thought upon waking was that he hadn't died.

His second was that too many people spent way too much time unconscious around here.

There were fingers on his wrist, and gentle ones smoothing through his hair. He opened his eyes and almost jumped out of his skin at the sight of Cordelia's face barely six inches from his own. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, and Cordy sat up and away from him hurriedly.

"Sorry," she said, her fingers stroking his hair again soothingly. It felt good. "Didn't mean to freak you out."

Wesley let go of his wrist almost reluctantly. "How do you feel?"

"Okay," he said automatically, and then considered it for a minute. "Yeah. You coulda warned a guy that something like that might happen."

"I did tell you that the outcome was unpredictable," Wesley pointed out. "But what I meant was, do you feel different?"

Doyle sat up and patted Cordy's knee reassuringly. "Not really. You mean after all that you're *still* not sure if it worked?"

"Well, you either have the visions in your head, or you're now the proud owner of Cordelia's frontal lobe," Wesley said dryly.

Cordelia shot him a look of annoyance, and Doyle chuckled. His head didn't hurt, and the niggling feeling in his gut about the ramifications of having the visions back -- if he did -- was easily ignored. "Not that I couldn't use some extra brain power, Princess, but I think it's gonna be okay. I think it worked."

She grinned a little bit. "I think so too. I mean, I felt... something."

"Yeah, so did I." He didn't mention that it had been excruciating pain.

Angel cleared his throat behind him, and Doyle turned to look at him. "Let's be sure before we get our hopes up, okay?" There was something in Angel's eyes that told Doyle just how worried he'd been about Cordy, something that said it was Angel's own hopes the vampire was worried about.

"Okay." Doyle got up and straightened his trousers, glad that he'd started out sitting on the floor. He gestured at Lorne, feeling the same hesitance about the demon as he had before. "So, singing again?"

"Let's let Cordy do it," Lorne said. "See what the future has in store for her now that the PTB aren't in charge of her brain."

"We don't *know* that," Angel said warningly.

"It's okay, Angel," Cordelia said, taking the vampire's hand. "Stop being such a worrywart."

"I can't help it," Angel said. "Kind of in my nature."

"No, that's the brooding," Cordelia told him, then smiled and tilted her head to one side. When Angel forced an answering smile, she nodded and released her grip on him, then immediately launched into the most god-awful rendition of "The Greatest Love of All" Doyle had ever heard.

Lorne, obviously feeling the same way that Doyle did about her performance and wanting to spare them, stopped her almost instantly. "Okay, sweet pea, that's enough." The demon's smile was wide. "That's all she wrote."

"I'm good?" Cordelia's own smile just about eclipsed the room, it was so brilliant.

"You're good," Lorne confirmed, opening his arms and gathering her into them.

Cordelia returned his hug quickly, then turned and hugged Angel. Doyle couldn't help but notice that that embrace lasted a little bit longer than a relieved, friendly one might otherwise have. "I can't believe it," Cordelia said, pulling back and looking up at Angel. "It really worked."

Wesley stifled a cough behind his fist, and Cordelia turned.

"I didn't mean *that,*" she said to Wesley, going over and hugging him too. "Thanks. You were amazing."

"Hey, what about me?" Doyle asked, crossing his arms and trying to look offended. "Don't *I* get any thanks?"

"For taking them back after sticking me with them for two years?" Cordelia's eyebrow was raised. "I don't think so." But she smiled, a little bit sadly, and moved into Doyle's arms. "Thanks," she said, so quietly that he didn't think even Angel would have been able to hear it.

"It's what you brought me back for, right?" he asked, wanting to hear that it had been more than that, that they'd missed him.

"Yeah," Cordelia said, and strangely, the way that her eyes were shining was enough. He didn't need more.

"Perhaps we should celebrate?" Wesley offered, kind of tentatively, like he wasn't used to his suggestions being well-received.

"That," Doyle said, twirling Cordelia around, "is the best idea I've heard in a long time. And I'm not just sayin' that because I've been dead."

Angel stuck his hands in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable. Just seeing him like that brought back memories. "Good. Yeah, you should do that."

"*We* should," Cordy said, putting her hands on her hips and looking at him sternly. "You are *so* not getting out of this one."

"I'm... not really good with the whole bar scene." Angel fidgeted.

"We're not talking about the bar scene," Cordelia told him. "We're talking about all of us going out for a couple of drinks, maybe some dancing... unless that's a little too much for Lorne? I mean, considering the big shoot-em-up and all."

Lorne held his hands up. "Hey, I love a good celebration as much as the next guy, and believe you me, I've seen enough of my own place lately. You think we can get the Fredster to join us?"

"If she knows what's good for her," Cordelia said. "Wes, you wanna call Gunn? 'Cause we are gonna par-tay!"

* * * * * 

"She's radiant, isn't she?"

Wesley seemed to have startled Doyle out of some reverie, because the other man blinked and then turned his head to look at him, obviously dragging his gaze away from Cordelia with great reluctance. "Yeah, she's... yeah. Radiant."

Cordelia and Gunn were dancing wildly, throwing themselves into the music with a sense of rhythm and joy that Wesley found enviable. He always felt awkward on the dance floor, despite the fact that he forced himself to participate. Lorne was dancing with Fred, who'd felt too self-conscious to do anything by herself but was willing to dance as long as there was some -- literal -- hand-holding going on.

Angel was watching from the other side of the club, leaning up against a post with a drink in one hand, his eyes as locked on Cordelia as Doyle's had been. Every few moments someone went over and spoke to Angel, but the vampire only shook his head, fending off attempts at conversation and requests to dance alike.

"You think she'll be okay? I mean, sure, the visions are out of her head, but what about lasting damage?" Doyle drained the rest of his drink and stepped closer to the bar to set his glass down, nodding to the bartender.

"We can look into that, of course, but I don't think it's of great concern." Wesley looked down into his own glass, which was still mostly full.

"Good." Doyle picked up his fresh drink, raised it to the man behind the bar, and took a sip. "Not much of a drinker?"

Wesley shook his head slightly. "No."

"Nor much of a dancer either."

Wesley's initial reaction was to protest that he did the best he could, but then he realized that Doyle actually hadn't seen him dance, and was referring to that fact. "No. No, not in public. Not anymore."

Doyle grinned. "Let me guess, you cut a mean figure on the kitchen floor."

"If I admitted to that, you'd spread it far and wide, wouldn't you." Wesley smiled a bit in return.

"Nah. Not any further than the office." Doyle made a little gesture at the stools behind them. "You wanna sit down?"

"All right." They settled themselves on the seats, both of them facing the dance floor. It was a smaller, less popular club than the ones Cordelia had chosen in the past, so although it was crowded, they could hear each other speak without shouting at the tops of their lungs. Wesley found himself watching Doyle more than he was watching the others. There was something about the man that was... kinetic, somehow.

"Am I really that interesting?" Doyle snorted. "And haven't we had this conversation before?"

Wesley forced his eyes back to Cordelia and Gunn, and took another sip of his drink. If he didn't watch himself, his... interest in Doyle was going to become appallingly obvious. "I suppose I'm wondering how you're dealing with all of this."

"Haven't got much choice," Doyle pointed out.

"No, that's probably true." Wesley gave up and put his glass down on the bar behind them -- he wasn't in a mood to drink, for whatever reason. "You do seem to be adjusting remarkably well."

"Other than the whole being-dead-for-two-years thing, there isn't much to adjust to." Doyle shrugged. "Well, except for the hotel, and Fred, and Gunn, and Lorne. And you."

Wesley wondered why he always seemed to be an after-thought. Before he could respond -- not that he knew how to respond -- Cordelia came bouncing up to them. Her face was flushed and her hair tousled. "I need another drink," she announced. "Someone get me one?"

Doyle turned to order something for her.

"You're having a good time," Wesley said.

"Well *duh.* You could be too, if you weren't such a fuddy-duddy. Come on, Wes, get out there on the dance floor and shake your groove thing."

"I was under the impression that you didn't think too highly of my ability to shake my groove thing," Wesley said.

Cordelia snickered. "You're smart -- you could learn."

"I'm not so sure that's true."

Doyle handed Cordelia a bright blue cocktail in what looked like a martini glass.

"Now *that's* what I call a drink," Cordelia said admiringly. She took a sip. "Yum. You guys want to try?" Both men shook their heads, so she said, "Your loss," and danced her way back out onto the floor, shaking her behind in a manner that caused everyone she passed to turn and look at her.

Wesley and Doyle watched as Cordelia danced all the way across the room to where Angel stood, still holding up the post as if he thought that moving would cause the ceiling to come crashing down on everyone. She leaned her head in close to his, obviously saying something, and then Angel laughed. Actually laughed, and it looked like... well. Wesley didn't want to think about that too carefully, although he supposed something would have to be done about it before it got too far out of control.

"She looks happy," Doyle said, and Wesley thought he sounded wistful.

"She does."

"Glad I could do this much for her, at least." Doyle finished his drink and set his glass next to Wesley's. "So. Angel tells me you're as good with a gun as you are with a crossbow. Some kind of sharp-shooter, huh?"

Wesley thought back to his performance in the sewers earlier and grimaced. "Yes, well... it's unfortunate that I'm not able to concentrate my attention on what's happening around me at the same time, isn't it."

Doyle's face creased with what might have been concern. "Hey, you were pretty slick down there. You saved my ass, I saved yours. Far as I can tell, we're even."

Picking his glass up again, Wesley took a sip, considering this. "You may be right," he conceded, with a small nod. "I suppose I... expect better from myself."

"Nothing wrong with having high standards," Doyle agreed. "But beatin' yourself up over a little mistake -- mistake that anybody coulda made -- that's just a waste of time and energy. Let it go, man." His accent was a bit thicker with a few drinks in him, and he reached out and patted Wesley's shoulder lightly. The touch made Wesley smile.

Wesley thought it likely that Doyle was a great deal smarter than he let on.

* * * * * 

Doyle didn't have another drink that night, something that surprised him later when he realized it. At the time everything else just seemed so distracting... the lights, the music, watching Cordy. Talking to Wesley, which was a hell of a lot more interesting than he'd have guessed. More interesting than getting drunk, even.

By the time they managed to drag Cordy out of the club, she'd had a few too many drinks herself, and was more than a bit wobbly on her legs. Wesley insisted that he'd drive her home -- it was on his way -- and Angel grudgingly gave in after a minute or so.

"Just make sure she drinks some water before she goes to bed," Angel told Wesley.

"I'm not stupid, you know," Cordy said, with a toss of her head. "*Or* deaf."

Angel nodded placatingly. "You coming back to the hotel?" he asked Doyle, as Fred and Lorne got into his car, and Cordy climbed into the front seat of the SUV with a steadying hand from Wesley.

Doyle hesitated, some part of him feeling a need to make sure Cordy got home safe.

"If you wanted to come with along with us, you could sleep on my sofa again," Wesley offered, looking like he expected his kindness to be thrown back in his face. "I daresay it's not any less comfortable than the beds at the Hyperion."

"Thanks. That'd be great." He shook his head at Angel. "I'm going with Wesley. See you in the morning?"

When they got to Cordy's apartment building -- and boy was *that* a blast from the past, not that he should have expected it to have changed much in a couple of years -- Wesley was nice enough to sit in the car and let Doyle walk her in. Two steps away from the front door, Cordy stopped and started fumbling in her purse, presumably looking for her keys.

"Um, Princess... won't Dennis let us in?"

"No," she said stubbornly, moving closer to the door, still looking into her purse. "We have an agreement. He doesn't let me in unless it's, like, an *emergency.* Otherwise, what if someone was trying to hold me hostage or something?"

Doyle wasn't sure he could follow this train of thought, but he figured it was easier to agree with her. "You want me to look?"

"I've *got* it." Cordelia's voice was sharp with irritation. She rummaged around some more and then her purse half-slipped from her grasp, most of its contents spilling onto the brick with a clatter. "Shit," she muttered, crouching down.

He hunkered down next to her to help. "Maybe you should consider this an emergency," he said jokingly.

"Well for me it would be," Cordelia said, putting her apparently-found keys to one side and then starting to shove things back into her bag. "Just because for you it's like a daily occurrence..."

"Ouch," Doyle said, only partially faking a wounded tone. He would have said more, except his hands had just closed around a half-dozen pill bottles. "Jesus," he said.

Cordelia reached to grab them from him, but he pulled his hands back, turning the bottles so that he could read the labels in the pale yellow glow of the overhead lamp.

"Quite a collection here," he managed, after his brain had taken in the fact that they were all prescription medication, and some names that sounded serious.

"Yeah, well... you *saw* me take them before."

Still. "When you said 'painkillers' I thought you meant Tylenol, not this stuff. This is heavy-duty stuff. Addictive."

She did take them from him then, putting them back into her purse and standing up. "Well excuse me. Addiction didn't seem like a big concern when I was more worried about being *dead.*"

There it was. Doyle had known that there had to be anger in there, underneath the fear and everything else she'd been going through. Only fair that it was directed at him. "You don't need them now," he pointed out.

Cordelia snapped. "Fine," she said, throwing her pocketbook down onto the bricks with a violent motion. One of the pill bottles jumped out and skittered away into the mulch on the side of the walkway. "Just take them. This is all your fault anyway."

Doyle stood up slowly, letting her do whatever she needed to do. He deserved worse than having to take the visions back, and if it made her feel better, he'd take it. "You've got every right to be mad at me, Cordy. What happened, it was a terrible thing for you to have to go through."

"You have *no idea!*" Her voice rose, shrill in her fury. "Do you have any idea what it was *like*? What it was like to know that you gave them to me, to wonder what I'd done that was so bad that I needed punishing?"

Before Doyle could respond, he heard Wesley's voice behind him, calm and reasonable. "That's enough."

Cordy turned her anger on him. "You stay out of it. I don't -- "

"*Enough,* Cordelia." Wesley brushed past Doyle and picked up the keys from the walkway, then slid them into the lock and opened the door. "That's enough," he repeated. "Go inside, drink a glass of water, and go to bed."

She looked uncertain now, and young. "I... "

"It's okay," Doyle told her. "You're allowed. But Wesley's right, drink some water or you're gonna have a head on you the size of the city in the morning." Without waiting for an apology that he was afraid might not come, he turned and walked back down to the car.

In a couple of minutes Wesley joined him, getting in and starting up the SUV. "She's very sorry."

"Yeah. So am I."

"I'd imagine she'll be sorrier in the morning when she actually realizes what she's done," Wesley said. "She's been under a great deal of strain for some time. That, coupled with the alcohol, was a bit more than she could handle, I'm afraid."

"She doesn't owe me any apologies or explanations," Doyle said bleakly, looking out the window.

"Oh, she most certainly does." Wesley sounded determined. "And I'm sure once she sobers up, you'll get them."

Doyle shrugged. "You think she's gonna be okay? Alone, I mean?"

"She'll be fine. She's not *that* drunk, and Dennis would phone if anything serious were to happen. But it won't." Doyle could feel Wesley looking at him. "What about you? Are you going to be all right?"

"Me?" Doyle had no idea how to answer that question. "Yeah, sure," he said finally. "Can't say I'm looking forward to dealing with the whole vision thing again, but hey... it beats being dead."

"Yes, I'd think that it would." Wesley glanced over at him again, started to say something, and then cut himself off with a shake of his head. "I could always take you back to the hotel if you'd prefer," he offered after another minute.

"Doesn't matter to me where I sleep," Doyle said, and then realized this might be Wesley's nice way of saying *he'd* rather not have Doyle cutting in on his space. "Unless you'd, you know, rather have your privacy," he finished lamely.

"No, no, it's not that at all." Wesley actually reached out and patted Doyle's shoulder. "I didn't mean to imply that. I just thought that, well, perhaps you'd be more comfortable under Angel's roof."

"I like your couch," Doyle said, then admitted, "Besides, Angel's... different."

"Really? In what way?"

Doyle took a long moment to try to put it into words. "I dunno. Less tortured -- not that that's a bad thing."

Wesley nodded. "What else?"

"I guess I thought maybe he'd be... happier to have me back." Doyle leaned back in his seat a little bit more, feeling like an idiot. "I mean, don't get me wrong... it's not like I'd picture him throwing me some big bash with lots of booze and dancin' girls."

"He's been worried about Cordelia -- we all have. Perhaps now that he knows she's all right, he'll be able to concentrate on other things."

Doyle rubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, I sound like a teenaged girl complainin' about her boyfriend not paying her enough attention, don't I? I'm not usually like this, I swear."

Wesley patted his shoulder again, more lingeringly this time, but his tone was light when he said, "Don't worry. I promise not to judge you based on this conversation."

"Yeah, save the judging for other things, like how I get after I have the first -- next -- vision." He wasn't looking forward to that.

"All right." Wesley sounded amused. "I'll make note of that."

Wesley's apartment still looked nice to Doyle -- way nicer than his own ever had, even if he suspected that it had more to do with Wesley's stuff than the apartment itself. Wes' things were... nice. Not classy exactly, more... intellectual. Books and papers and old things that looked like antiques instead of just junk. It was cluttered, but not dirty. Like Wesley knew where everything was, despite the fact that it didn't look like there was any sense to the disorder.

"Tea?" Wesley asked, locking the door behind himself and tossing his coat onto the nearest chair.

"Sounds great."

Doyle followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the wall as Wes spooned tea and poured water. It amused him to no end that Wes had a real tea pot and loose tea, but used mugs instead of tea cups. There was something about the guy that fascinated him -- kind of reminded him of how he'd felt about Angel, back before he'd died, but on a more... equal level, maybe. The Angel thing'd been some kind of hero worship. This was more like a partnery thing.

"I left the rest of the clothes Cordy bought me back at the hotel," he remembered.

Wesley looked over at him. "You can borrow some of my things in the morning if you like."

"Thanks." Doyle glanced down at himself and then at Wesley, noting -- and not for the first time -- their height differences, but he appreciated the offer so he didn't say anything. He took the mug of tea that Wesley held out to him. "Thanks for everything," he said, meaning it.

"It's no trouble," Wesley said, moving past him and into the living room, looking at the sofa. "We should open that up, you'll sleep better on a proper bed." He took a sip of his tea, then set it down on the end table and retrieved the sheets that hadn't been used the night before.

"I've slept on worse places than a couch," Doyle protested mildly, but he put his own tea down and moved to help Wesley, gathering up the blankets and pillow and putting them on the floor so that they could open up the bed. "So. Guess Cordy's been harboring some resentment."

Wesley glanced at him as he piled the cushions to one side. "You can hardly blame her. Not," he added quickly, "that you should feel responsible for transferring the visions to her, as you clearly had no idea that was going to happen. But it's been a difficult time for her, and she's kept herself together throughout. It shouldn't come as any surprise that she'd need to let some of it out, at some point." He pulled the metal frame and folded mattress out, setting the legs down onto the floor.

Doyle nodded and gestured at Wesley to give him one side of the sheet. "Yeah, guess I was a convenient target in more ways than one."

"I suppose so." Wesley finished tucking the fitted sheet down on his side and moved to spread out the flat sheet. He stopped, stood up straighter, and looked at Doyle steadily. "She doesn't hate you. You know that?"

Uncomfortable with the close scrutiny, Doyle turned and picked up the pillow, tossing it to the head of the bed. "Sure."

"That would be the kind of 'sure' that actually means 'no,' wouldn't it."

"Maybe?" Doyle grinned ruefully. "Boy, you really get to see me at my best. Bet if it weren't for the vision thing you'd be regrettin' bringing me back."

Wesley finished tucking the sheet and blankets in at the bottom of the bed and blinked thoughtfully. "No, actually I can't say I would."

Doyle wasn't sure if he was flattered or embarrassed -- okay, maybe a little of both -- so he picked up his tea again and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"You must be exhausted," Wesley said, as if he'd only just realized it and was ashamed of himself. "I'll go and let you get some sleep."

Before Doyle could protest, Wes' bedroom door was closing with a soft *click.*

Great. Angel seemed to be avoiding him, Cordy was pissed off at him, and now Wesley was obviously annoyed by something he'd said. Or maybe, Doyle thought, by something he *hadn't* said.

Wow, it sure was good to be back.

* * * * * 

Now that he'd been at the hotel for most of the day, Doyle wasn't wondering if Angel was avoiding him -- he knew. He'd tried a couple of times to start a conversation, only to have Angel stammer and make some flimsy excuse and disappear to 'do something.' The weirdest thing was that Angel wasn't mad at him -- it was more like he was worried, because when he was making his excuses his voice was too friendly, too cheerful.

It was enough to drive Doyle batty.

Finally, he managed to corner Angel alone. Fred was up in her room, Cordelia had taken the day off, and Gunn and Wesley had gone on some kind of weapons supply run. Angel'd made the mistake of going into the office, so Doyle stood in the doorway and waited to be noticed.

Angel closed the drawer he'd been looking in and stood up. "Oh," he said, glancing at Doyle and then back down at the folder in his hands. "Um, hey."

"There some reason you're avoiding me?" Doyle figured it was best to take the bull by the horns.

"What? I'm not." Angel looked down at the folder again. "I'm not avoiding you."

"Bull. Other than our casual little 'fill me in on what's been happening' chat yesterday, you've hardly said two words to me."

"That's not true."

"Angel, come on, man. I thought we were friends. At least be honest with me." Doyle was starting to wonder if he really did want to know what was going on.

"I am. Being honest."

"Uh huh." Doyle crossed his arms and leaned on the door frame, trying his best to look like he had all the time in the world.

Angel met his gaze, finally, and then sighed and sat down on the edge of the desk. "I'm not good at this."

"You're tellin' me. Look, whatever it is, just spit it out. You want me gone?"

"What? No!" Angel dropped his folder agitatedly, his face creased with concern. "No."

"Then what?"

"I guess... I guess I was so busy thinking about saving Cordy that I didn't think about what it would be like to have you back."

"And now that I am, I'm crampin' your style?" Doyle shifted his weight, watching Angel for something -- anything -- that'd give him a clue as to what the vampire was thinking.

Angel shook his head. "I forgot."

"Forgot what?" Okay, getting to the point now where he'd strangle the guy if it'd make a difference.

"How, you know... things were. Between you and Cordy."

This provided the tiniest glimmer of clarity. "Me and Cordy. You forgot that I had a thing for her? Jeez man, color me offended." Doyle put a hand over his heart. "Guess I didn't mean too much to you, if you'd forget all the times I asked you to put in a good word for me."

"Not that," Angel said, frowning. "I meant... how she felt about you."

"Disgusted and annoyed?"

Angel's frown deepened. "No. Well okay, yeah, but that was before."

"Before I inadvertently passed on a terrible burden to her, and then went out in a literal blaze of glory?" Doyle thought that somewhere along the line, Angel's perception of the situation had gotten seriously skewed. "Because yeah, I can see why after that she'd be feeling all warm and glowy when she thought of me."

"She had feelings for you before that." Angel's voice was quiet and a little bit gravelly. "It took her a while to figure it out."

Now Doyle was the one wanting to sit down, and it seemed less likely that Angel was going to try to run off in the middle of their little talk, so he went further into the room and sank down on one of the wooden chairs. "Okay, so for whatever reason, last night's little argument notwithstanding, you think Cordy's still got feelings for me? Is that what you're saying?"

Angel glanced down, then back up. "Yeah."

"And that would be a problem why?"

For a few seconds, Doyle thought that Angel was on the edge of tears. There was something about his eyes -- deep and dark and soulful, and wow wasn't *that* an appropriate word -- that begged Doyle to understand without his having to explain.

"Oh," Doyle said, the reality hitting him like a punch to the gut. "*You've* got feelings for her." He thought back to the night before in the club -- the way Angel had been watching Cordy, the way Cordy had gone over and drawn a smile out of the vampire like that was an easy thing to do.

"I didn't mean to," Angel said, his voice pained. "I don't even know how it happened. And I can't -- I mean, I know I can't. *You* know I can't. And I don't want to stand in your way, if you want to -- "

"Angel." Doyle interrupted because listening to Angel go on about it was just going to hurt him too. "Jesus man, you think I'd go after her knowing that you want her? What kind of a friend do you think I am?"

There was a long pause before Angel answered. "The good kind," he said quietly, looking into Doyle's eyes with an intensity that took his breath away. "The kind that wants her to be happy."

"But... Angel..." Doyle didn't know what to say. There had to be a way. Didn't there? "I know the fleshy thing didn't work out so well for ya the last time, but... perfect happiness, that's hard to come by. Isn't there some way you could have, I don't know, pretty-decent-happiness?"

Angel stood up and picked up his folder from the desk, walking past Doyle and to the doorway. He paused and turned his head slightly so that Doyle could hear him. "Look, just... take care of her, okay? Whatever she wants. She deserves it."

There wasn't any argument to that, so Doyle let him go.

* * * * * 

"We're back!" Gunn's voice rang through the lobby as he and Wesley came down the steps and started to unload their purchases onto the counter.

Doyle appeared from inside Wesley's office. "Hey, how's it goin'?"

Wesley smiled at him. "How are you? Any visions?"

"Not a one," Doyle said, with what Wesley thought was gratitude. "Spent some time looking through the filing system. You know, trying to get reacquainted with the business."

"Good. If you have any questions, just ask." Wesley unpacked a handful of polishing cloths and opened the weapons cabinet, tucking them into the box where they were stored. "I'm sure it's not all that different from before."

"Are you kidding? Have you *seen* Cordy's filing?" Doyle grinned. "This is like a whole new animal. Real alphabetical order and everything."

Gunn took a short length of heavy chain out of one bag. "Angel around?"

"He was here a while ago," Doyle said, eyeing the chain. "You gonna beat him up? Because a wee bit of holy water'd work a hell of a lot better."

"It's to fix his heavy bag," Gunn explained, with the little smirk that Wesley knew was his acknowledgment of humor. "Well, guess I'll just go down and do it for him."

Wesley finished unpacking the supplies while Doyle watched. "It won't take you long to get back into the swing of things," he said.

"Probably not," Doyle agreed, and then Wesley caught something from the corner of his eye, a twitch that was unique and yet also disturbingly familiar. He turned in time to see Doyle clutching the edge of the counter, the heel of his hand pressed to his temple. "Oh shit," Doyle muttered, just before he fell.

* * * * * 

He'd forgotten how a vision was like a freight train through your skull. No, not a freight train, one of those super-fast ones, like a speeding bullet. No, that was Superman. There was the long, excruciatingly painful moment in which he knew it was coming, in which he knew that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had enough time to acknowledge it, and to mutter a curse, and then it slammed into him.

_Flames. Running their way up a curtain that had little bunnies and kittens on it -- was that Beatrix Potter? The smell was wrong, sulfur and ash that shouldn't be there, not in that room, not there. He could hear the crackle of the flames, see edges of pale yellow wallpaper curling up and turning black, see tiny cinders floating in the air like dust motes, and it was all wrong._

Doyle could feel his body spasm, the back of his already-battered shoe hit the floor hard, but it was all dim, like it was happening to someone else. The vision was what was real.

_A crib, and the flames were spreading across the wall, and there were small choking sounds now. His chest felt tight, and it was too warm. The sense of panic, of wrongness, was building._

_Green house. Ranch. 54 Jackson._

_On the windowsill was perched a creature -- some kind of lizard, but too big, the size of a dog. Webbed feet, and skin that mottled from red to green, and a long black tongue that lolled out like it would have been laughing if it could have. The lizard turned its head and made a rasping sound, and another gout of fire spouted from its mouth and added a new set of flames to the curtain._

Someone was saying something, but he couldn't understand what it was.

_Fire. The distant sound of very high-pitched beeping, but the knowledge that it was too late. All wrong, too late. He couldn't breathe the air, his lungs were seared with it, burning. Too hot, too hot, too hot, burning BURNING --_

Then it was over, and the tile floor was hard, but someone softer was holding him, a supportive arm around his back, a hand on his shoulder.

"Fire," Doyle choked, shuddering as the reality of it pressed against him again, reminding him. "Jesus. Jesus Christ." He felt sick.

"All right, just take some deep breaths, you're all right." Wesley's voice was soft too.

"Where the *fuck's* Angel?" Doyle asked, just before the sound of footsteps came thundering up, too loud and echoing in this place that was safe when somewhere else wasn't.

Angel's hand on his other shoulder, gripping. "I'm here. What was it?"

God, he was gonna be sick. Pulling away from both of them, Doyle rolled, curling his body so that his knees and elbows were supporting his weight against the floor. The marble tile was cold against his forehead, and that along with a couple of deep breaths helped the moment pass. "Fire," he repeated, swallowing the bile that lingered at the back of his throat. "54 Jackson Street. Green house."

"No offense, but isn't that a job for the fire department?" Gunn's voice asked.

Doyle pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at them. "There's a demon -- some kind of fire lizard or something. It's not big but it, you know," he had to stop and clear his throat, "breathes fire." He met Angel's eyes. "It's a baby's room."

Angel nodded brusquely. "Wes? Any idea what this thing is?"

Moving to a crouched position from his previously kneeling one, Wesley looked at Doyle, his expression serious. "Was it the size of a rat terrier? Red, with a green underbelly?"

Doyle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. He could still taste the soot on his tongue, smell the scorching wallpaper glue. "Webbed feet."

"Filanticium demon." Wesley nodded decisively, as if he didn't have any doubt. "They move quickly, but they're very susceptible to water. If you wet them down well, they're immobilized and incapable of producing fire."

Angel stood up. "Okay, I'm thinking this'd be one of those times when it would be handy to have a *water* thrower instead of a flame thrower."

Gunn shook his head. "Not a problem. Got those Super Soakers in the back of my truck. Quick stop to fill 'em up, and we're good to go."

"Super Soakers?" Angel looked confused.

"Big-ass squirt guns?" Gunn tried to clarify, and when Angel still looked mystified, added, "Used to put the holy water in 'em?"

"Oh, right." Angel went to the weapons cabinet and took out a sword, then paused and looked from Doyle to Wesley. "Gunn and I can handle this one," he said with authority. "Keep an eye on him?" It was clear that he was talking to Wesley.

"Of course," Wesley said.

Doyle didn't have the energy to protest, but he managed to struggle to his feet as they left. He leaned heavily against the counter, resting his head on his forearm, just concentrating on breathing and *not* throwing up.

After a minute, he felt a warm hand on his back. "Can I get you anything? Water? Aspirin?" Wesley's voice was a study in gentleness.

"Bottle of scotch?" Doyle suggested wryly, not moving.

"I'm sure there's some around here somewhere," Wesley agreed, not moving either. His hand slid up and down Doyle's spine, then back and forth across his lower back in small circles. "Do you really think it would be the best option?"

"Might make me care less," Doyle muttered. His gut twisted again, and he tried concentrating on breathing through his nose.

There was a pause in the gentle circling. "You don't want that," Wesley said. "I *am* sorry that your re-acquaintance with the visions had to start with something so unpleasant, but I can tell you're not the sort of person who wants to stop caring." Wesley's hand slid across Doyle's back and then up his side, and Doyle stopped thinking about his stomach for just a second as, to his surprise, other body parts reacted to the intimacy of the touch.

"I'd go with 'Why did it have to be fire?' but that's a little too Indiana-Jones for me," Doyle said, trying to inject some kind of warmth into his voice despite the pounding in his head, not sure he was ready to try to puzzle out why Wes touching him seemed to be turning him on. Maybe it was just some kind of after-vision body weirdness.

He heard the sound of the front door swinging open, and turned so that he could see who it was. Cordy was wearing a short skirt and a low-cut blue blouse and she looked like she'd taken some care with her appearance. "Hello! Look who managed to come into work despite her raging hangover!" Cordelia sounded like she was forcing herself to be cheerful.

Wesley's hand stopped touching him. "Cordelia, it's almost seven o'clock. I'd hardly get too excited about the fact that you managed to make your way to the office nearly ten hours late."

"Geez, and I thought *I* looked bad," Cordy said, eyeing Doyle critically. "You didn't seem this drunk last night. Or are you trying to get a jump on tonight's binge?"

"He had a vision," Wesley said shortly, patting Doyle's shoulder one more time and starting to walk toward his office. "I'll leave you two to talk."

Cordy waited until Wesley was gone before she smiled at him, a little bit apologetically, and came over to touch his arm. "You okay?"

He'd been doing his best to pretend that the night before hadn't happened -- it was bad enough knowing what the visions had done to Cordy without having her yell at him about it -- but it was probably better to get it over with. "Yeah." He eyed her shoulder bag. "Got any of those pills in there?"

"No." She glanced down at the floor, then back up at him. "Besides, weren't you the one telling me that they were all addictive and serious and stuff?"

"Guess it's different when you're talking about your own head," Doyle admitted, then pointed over at the couch. "Think we could sit down?"

"Sure."

Once they were settled -- Doyle slouched down with his head resting on the not-padded-enough back of the couch, Cordy turned so that she was half-facing him -- Cordy sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "About last night. I shouldn't have flipped out on you like that."

"As far as flips go that one was pretty mild, Princess." Doyle rolled his head to the side so that he could look at her. She was just as gorgeous as ever -- at least two years as the spokesperson for the PTB hadn't changed that.

"Yeah, but it was you." Cordy was genuinely upset.

"You've got every right to be mad at me. If I hadn't kissed you none of this would have happened."

Cordelia's eyes searched his. "I promised myself that if it worked -- if we got you back -- that things would be different. That even if we couldn't make the visions do the magical version of musical chairs, I'd make sure that I didn't do, you know, that thing I do."

"What thing?"

"That thing where I say stuff without thinking first and hurt the people I care about?" Her head was tilted to the side, a tiny crooked smile on her lips.

"Oh right, that thing." Doyle smiled back at her. "It's okay. Really."

Cordy's grin became genuine. "Really?"

"Yeah." He reached out and patted her knee.

"So..." Cordy started to dig around in her purse. "You want some aspirin?"

"That'd be great." Doyle accepted the pills and washed them down with the bottle of water that Cordy handed him, then closed his eyes as his stomach protested the intrusion. "Forgot how much this sucks," he said, after a few more deep breaths.

He felt Cordy's fingers brush through his hair soothingly. "What was it?"

"Fire," he said. "Some kind of lizard demon thing -- Wesley knew what it was -- in a baby's room." He kept his eyes closed, trying to let Cordy's touch smooth away the memory. It was nice to pretend that it might, even though he knew he was only fooling himself.

There was a noise off to the side, and Doyle turned his head to see Wesley hesitating in the doorway to the office. "I don't want to interrupt," Wes said, "but I found this picture, and I thought it would be good to verify... if you didn't mind..."

Doyle pushed himself to a more upright sitting position and gestured at the book Wesley had in his hands. "Let me see."

Wesley came over and put the book into Doyle's lap.

"Yeah, that's it." No question about it -- that was the thing he'd seen. Impressed by how quickly Wesley'd been able to find a picture of the thing, Doyle grinned up at him and offered the book back. "Too bad you weren't around back in the day. Woulda been a sight better than Demons, Demons, Demons."

Wesley and Cordy both looked confused at that, which was a fresh reminder that to Cordy it really *was* back in the day, and not a matter of weeks like it seemed to him. Wes was looking at him with an expression that might have been understanding, even though Doyle couldn't figure how that was possible.

"Look, I'm gonna go home -- I just kinda stopped in to apologize. Call me if anything happens?" Cordy stood up, and then paused and gave Wesley a meaningful glance.

"Oh! I just need to, er, put this back where it belongs." Wesley retreated quickly to the office, leaving them alone again.

"So I was kind of thinking," Cordelia started.

"Only kind of?"

Cordy frowned and nudged him with her foot. "Would you shut up and let me talk?"

Doyle held his hands up in surrender. "The floor's all yours, Princess. 'Course, that's because standing up's not really an option for me right now..."

"I was thinking that we should talk. I mean, really." Cordy's eyes were dark and unusually soft. "So... do you want to have dinner?"

"It's kinda late," Doyle pointed out.

"I didn't mean tonight. Tomorrow. I'd offer to have you over to my place but... still not so much with the cooking."

"Why does that not surprise me?" It felt natural, poking fun at her like this.

Cordy's eyes widened in mock outrage. "Oh mister, you are gonna be in *serious* trouble if you don't knock it off."

Feigning contrite about as successfully, he thought, as Cordy faked outrage, Doyle said honestly, "I'd love to have dinner with you. You want me to find someplace? I mean, I've been out of the loop for a while, but I could -- "

"No," Cordelia said quickly. "No, that's okay. I'll do it. Eight?"

"You gonna pick me up and bring me flowers too?" Doyle asked, bemused.

Cordy reached out and smacked his upper arm lightly. "No flowers. And you can meet me there. I'll call and let you know."

As Doyle watched her leave, he tried to tell himself that the uncomfortable feeling in his chest was the result of the post-vision hangover. Just more of that body weirdness. That was definitely what it was.

* * * * * 

Sunday mornings were generally a bit confusing for Wesley, at least at first. He was so used to getting up to the alarm clock that to be able to wake naturally, on one's own, always seemed... well, *unnatural.*

Sometimes he went back to sleep on Sundays -- never for long, but it felt wasteful not to enjoy the opportunity, even when he'd gone to bed at a decent hour the night before. Other days he got up at the normal time, but allowed himself the luxury of an unusually long hot shower, or an actual cooked breakfast instead of his normal toast and coffee.

This morning, though, he woke to the sounds of cookware being banged about in the kitchen. A glance at the clock showed that it was only half an hour past his normal rising time, so he closed his eyes and sleepily contemplated drifting off for a bit longer. After a few minutes of continued clatter, however, he got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and wandered out to see what all the racket was about.

Doyle was just sliding an omelet onto a plate as Wesley paused in the doorway.

"What on earth are you doing?" Wesley asked, yawning.

"Oh good, you're up. Was just starting to think I'd have to wake you if we wanted to get to the office on time."

"It's Sunday."

Doyle's face fell. "Are you serious? Jesus."

Wesley smiled encouragingly and went into the kitchen, patting Doyle's arm as he passed by on his way to get some juice from the refrigerator. "Don't worry -- I often get up at this time even on Sundays."

"Yeah, but... I should have known."

"I'd imagine you've had much more important things on your mind than what day of the week it is." Wesley poured juice into two glasses and handed one to Doyle. "Besides, it should have occurred to me to remind you. Do you even know what day it was that we brought you back?"

Doyle looked at him blankly for a long moment, then shook his head. "Never thought to ask. And things were so crazy..."

"My point exactly." Wesley looked hopefully at the plates of food sitting on the range top. "Is it safe to assume that one of those is for me?"

"What? Yeah, of course." Doyle took both plates to the table and set them down, then went back for his juice. "So, Sunday, huh?"

"Yes. Is there anything special you'd like to do?" Wesley tried to look casual. He'd overheard Doyle and Cordelia's conversation the evening before, and knew that they had a date that night, but if Doyle hadn't realized that today was Sunday, that meant he probably hadn't made other plans.

Doyle shoveled a huge bite of egg and chopped tomato into his mouth and chewed before answering. "Actually, I was kinda hoping to go shopping. The stuff Cordy bought me's great and all, but it might be nice to show up for dinner in something she *didn't* pick out, you know?"

"Oh." Wesley realized that had sounded a bit disappointed, so he immediately launched into, "Of course. I'm sure we could find you something suitable."

Doyle grinned. "Not sure I want to go quite as far as suitable, but yeah. Angel loaned me some cash until I can get my financial situation straightened out, but some advice on where to go -- not to mention what to buy -- would be fantastic."

Glancing down at his own clothing, Wesley shook his head. "I'm not certain I'm the person you should be taking advice from -- in fact, I'm quite sure Cordelia's first reaction would be to tell you to use me as an example of what *not* to purchase."

"Hey, no," Doyle protested. "I'm not deluding myself, man. I know nothing I pick's gonna be up to Cordy's standards. But I'd rather show up in something *I* chose than in something she bought for me, like I was some kid."

Wesley nodded. "I completely understand. We'll find you something. Perhaps at the mall."

Doyle swallowed and took a gulp of juice, then got up to pour coffee. While his back was still turned to Wesley, he said, "And Angel said some time in the next couple days we'll find a room for me at the hotel. Get me out of your hair."

"I see," Wesley said slowly, not unaware that he sounded distant. Even in a few days' time he'd gotten rather used to having Doyle around, and although admittedly the man wouldn't be comfortable sleeping on a sofa bed forever, it hadn't occurred to Wesley that he'd be leaving so soon. "Yes, I'm sure you're finding it a bit cramped here."

Doyle turned around with two cups of coffee in his hands and an expression of dismay on his face. "Jesus, don't say it like that."

"Like what?" Wesley wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Like... like you think *I* think your place isn't good enough for me. Or like I can't wait to get away from you." Doyle set a coffee cup down in front of Wesley and stood there, looking at him earnestly. "I just figured, you know... you didn't sign on for a permanent house guest. I've gotta be crampin' your style."

Wesley almost laughed. "My style?"

"Yeah, you know... the ladies and whatnot." Doyle was still standing there, still watching him.

This time he did laugh, but he didn't think it seemed any more genuine than it actually was. "I can assure you that your presence here hasn't affected my lifestyle in any way."

Finally Doyle moved over to sit back down. "So you're not seeing anyone right now?"

"No. There was someone, last year..." Wesley could still recall, faintly, the smell of Virginia's hair. "But it didn't... well. We broke up."

Doyle nodded sympathetically. "And no one since then?"

Wesley quickly took another bite of omelet to give himself time to think of the proper response. "There've been a few people. Here and there. Nothing that lasted longer than a night or two." He winced as he realized that this was probably the proper response only if he wanted to make himself look like a slut, which he most definitely did not. "Not that I wouldn't have liked them to last longer. Oh Lord, do I sound like someone who takes relationships very casually? Because I assure you I'm not that sort of person."

Doyle was watching him again, with that expression that said he understood more than people gave him credit for. "Nah, I kinda guessed that. You seem more like the serious type to me."

"Yes, I suppose that's an accurate description." Not always the most flattering, perhaps, but accurate nonetheless. Maybe this was a good time to change the subject. "We need to talk money," he said briskly.

There was a pause, and then Doyle said awkwardly, "Well Angel had to loan me some so that I could buy clothes -- actually, come to think of it, he probably paid for the ones Cordy bought too. But I'm sure he'd float me some more... I mean, I hadn't even thought about all this food -- " He gestured at the plate in front of him.

Wesley caught the misunderstanding almost immediately, and interrupted. "No, no, that's not what I meant at all. I was talking about a salary. *Your* salary."

"Oh. Right." Doyle didn't seem any less awkward now that Wesley had explained. In fact, he looked embarrassed. "Look, you don't have to pay me. I mean the visions were my gig to start with -- just because they ended up being all connected to Angel and his redemption thing doesn't mean you should, you know, feel obliged to -- "

Again Wesley interrupted, this time making his voice firm. "It's not that I feel obliged, it's that you're doing your share -- arguably more than your share, as any of us fortunate enough *not* to have a direct connection to the Powers That Be would agree -- and you should be fairly recompensed. I won't take no for an answer."

Doyle looked at him, his lips twisted slightly in something that didn't look like a grin. "Fine. Yes, then."

"I'm sorry." Wesley felt like an ass. "Of course we can discuss it further if you'd like to. I suppose being forced into employment due to circumstances beyond your control must be... unpleasant."

"It's not that." Doyle poked his leftover food with his fork, moving it around, eyes on his plate. "Guess I just didn't realize how complicated all this was going to be." He looked up and gestured with his fork. "Coming back, I mean."

Wesley nodded, feeling a great deal of sympathy for the other man. "Perhaps you'd like to take some time?" he suggested hesitantly. "Take a room somewhere -- somewhere *not* the Hyperion. Give yourself some space so that you can think without all of us on top of you..." He realized how that last bit might have sounded and felt himself blush.

"No -- last thing I need's time alone. Trust me, my head's not a fun place to be." Doyle's smile was self-deprecating. "'Specially with the PTB making guest appearances." He stood up and took his plate to the sink. "Thanks. For the job, I mean. I appreciate it."

"You already had the job," Wesley said. "Now we're just making arrangements for you to actually be paid for it."

"Right." Doyle came back to the table and picked up his coffee mug. "So... you said somethin' about the mall?"

"Absolutely. If you're sure you trust me."

"Oh, I trust you." Doyle's eyes seemed dark, and Wesley had to wrench his own away.

Flustered, and not sure why, Wesley got up and took his own dishes to the sink. "All right then. Just let me grab a quick shower -- " There was a flash in his head of what Doyle might look like in the shower, small and compact, his skin sleek under the running water, and Wesley realized why he was flustered. "And I'll, er... be ready to go."

Wesley beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom, admonishing himself to get over it. Not only had Doyle shown no inclination of being interested in men -- and every interest in women -- but the man was obviously at the beginning of pursuing, or perhaps reestablishing, a relationship with Cordelia.

In the shower, Wesley tried not to think about Doyle, but it was impossible. He was erect and aching -- if he didn't take care of it he'd be in the bathroom for an hour waiting for it to subside. With one hand braced against the tile wall and the other stroking his cock, he brought himself to a shuddering climax, unable to stop himself from picturing sharp green eyes, from imagining Doyle on his knees...

Guilty and shaken, Wesley toweled dry and put his robe on again.

He was so conflicted that he didn't know whether to look forward to an afternoon with Doyle, or wish it were already over.

* * * * * 

"So what d'ya think?" Doyle came out of the changing room and turned around once. He was starting to feel like he'd been doing this for hours. Come to think of it, maybe he had. He didn't have a watch.

"It's nice," Wesley said. "They've all been nice."

"Is that supposed to be helpful?" Doyle crossed his arms.

"I did warn you that I was hardly the most qualified person for this kind of assistance," Wesley said, coming over and uncrossing Doyle's arms for him. He brushed the shirt and tie Doyle was wearing with his palm gently, smoothing out the wrinkles that had no doubt been caused by Doyle's display of immaturity.

"You don't need a doctorate," Doyle pointed out. "Just tell me what you think. This one? Or the blue?"

Wesley hesitated. "This one," he said finally. "Although I think I liked the other tie better. The silver one with the green accents."

"Cool. Thanks." Doyle went back into the booth and started to change back into the clothes he'd worn to the mall. It hadn't taken long to find slacks that fit, but the shirt had been a bit of a challenge because he had a thing about fabric -- well actually, to be totally honest, *Cordy* had a thing about fabric. It wouldn't feel right showing up for their date wearing something she wouldn't approve of. He wanted her happy. After all this time, she deserved it.

"So where are you going tonight?" Wesley's voice asked from the other side of the door.

"I dunno. Cordy said she'd call." He finished hanging the new shirt up and then looked from the tie to the little plastic hanger thing it had come on, trying to figure out how to get it back on. "You probably know the places she likes better than me. Any ideas?"

"Not really. Over the past year or so she's been... well. Less social, I suppose."

Doyle winced and opened the door, the shirt hanger in one hand with the tie draped over it. "Yeah, guess I can figure out why." He was trying not to look too closely at the fact that he wasn't as excited about his date with Cordy as he'd have thought.

Wesley took the little plastic clip thing from him and grabbed the tie, starting to thread it back on. "You really need to stop blaming yourself," he said, his eyes on what he was trying to do.

"Someone else I should be blaming?" He sounded just as bitter as he felt.

"The Powers That Be?" Wes suggested, handing the little tie hanger back over to Doyle. "Certainly they're the ones who allowed the visions to be transferred in the first place."

"Yeah, but if I hadn't kissed her, this never -- " Doyle stopped at the stern look Wesley was giving him.

"This sort of self-flagellation isn't going to help her, you know." Wesley's voice was gentle, belying his expression. "If you want to make things better for her, you need to focus on the future. On *her* future, now that she has one again. Beating yourself up over something that was out of your control will only make things worse."

Doyle found himself looking into Wesley's eyes -- the blue of them was almost hypnotizing. In that moment, he felt like he'd have agreed to anything Wesley suggested. "Yeah." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Yeah, you're right. It's just... well, I guess guilt's something I got pretty good at."

"So it would seem." Wesley smiled, and reached out to squeeze Doyle's shoulder. "Now it's something you'll have to unlearn."

As they headed out of the changing area and back into the large department store, Doyle asked plaintively, "Think they have classes in *that?*"

* * * * * 

Doyle was nervous, and he was telling himself that it was a good kind of nervous -- pleasantly anxious, those were the words. Excited. Yeah, that was it. He'd taken a cab to the restaurant -- thank god for Angel and his willingness to loan money -- and now he was waiting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand that he wanted to be drinking but couldn't quite bring himself to. Trying not to think about Angel, and how much his friend would probably have given to be here in his place.

He was sitting with a clear view of the front door, so when it opened and an older couple came in followed by Cordelia, he saw her right away. He stood up automatically, drink still in hand.

Christ, she was gorgeous. He missed the long hair -- although he'd refrained from telling her so -- but even with it shorter, she was a stunner. And the way she smiled when she saw him was enough to melt his heart.

"Hi," she said as she came up to him, and then gave a little spin to show off her slinky dress. "What do you think?"

"You're gorgeous. I'll be the envy of every man here."

Cordelia's smile was breathtaking. "Darn right you will." She reached out and ran a finger down his tie. "And look at you with the fancy new duds that I didn't pick out."

"I take it you approve?"

"You look great," Cordy said, nodding her head in emphasis.

"What can I say? I'm a quick learner." That felt a bit like a lie after his earlier conversation with Wesley, but Doyle tried to concentrate on what Wes had recommended -- being focused on the future, instead of the past.

Once they were sitting at the table and had ordered a bottle of wine, Cordelia reached out for his hand. "So how's it going?" she asked, her thumb moving gently over his knuckles. "You know, in your head?"

Doyle shrugged. "So far so good. I'm tough, Princess -- I can take it. Don't worry about me."

"Don't worry about you? That's a stupid thing to say. Of *course* I'm going to worry about you," Cordy said indignantly.

He put his hand over hers. "I just meant... sure, the visions aren't the best fun I've ever had in my life, but they aren't gonna kill me." There'd been times when he sort of wished they would, but strangely those times seemed to be in the past now.

In the past, where Wesley'd said they belonged.

The waiter came back to the table with their bottle of wine, and to Doyle's surprise, Cordy didn't let go of his hand.

"But they seem the same?" she asked, once the waiter had finished pouring and left again.

"The visions?" Doyle shrugged. "Yeah, basically. That first one was a doozy, but then I'm thinking that stuff burnin's always gonna be an issue for me, considering."

She nodded, her thumb making little side-to-side motions across the back of his hand. "But look, you've only been back a few days and already you've saved people. That's gotta feel good, right?"

He thought about the little baby in that crib, the flames licking up the walls. Thought about Cordy lying unconscious on the floor in the wake of her last vision. Her *last* vision.

Doyle smiled. "Yeah. Actually it does."

The rest of their dinner conversation was light and on the casual side, but after all the heavy topics of the past few days that was kind of a relief. Cordy was less animated than Doyle remembered her, but he tried not to dwell on the reasons for that. She was going to be okay -- that was what mattered. He found himself looking at her fondly as she described the plot of a movie to him, realizing that on some level he thought of her as a sister.

"Okay, I'm thinking I need my beauty sleep," Cordy said finally, throwing some money onto the table.

"I can pay for that," Doyle objected, not mentioning that it wouldn't exactly be with his own money.

Cordy smirked. "Angel loaned you some cash, didn't he."

"Well yeah," Doyle said, standing up and sticking his hands in his pockets. "But I'm on the payroll too, all official-like. So I'll be able to pay Angel back, get my own place again..."

"Good. If you have any sense you'll tell Wes you want a bonus for every vision."

They made their way out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk out front. Doyle looked down the street to see if he could spot a cab, but that was when Cordy grabbed onto his shirt front with both hands, pulling him close.

"Well hello," Doyle said. Her eyes were dark and wide, sparkling with warmth and humor.

"I want to show you something," Cordelia said, and leaned in and kissed him.

It was unbearably sweet -- her mouth tasted of wine and, faintly, of lipstick. It was soft and...

She pulled back and looked at him seriously, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips. "See?"

"See... what?" he asked, totally mystified.

"How was that? I mean... how did it feel?"

"It felt amazing, Princess. *You're* amazing." Doyle looked at her, wondering what it was he was missing. "What is it you're gettin' at, here?"

Cordelia rested her palm against his chest. "But did it turn you on?"

"What?" he sputtered. "What are you... of *course* it..." He blinked and thought about it, and realized that if he *had* to think about it, he already knew the answer.

"It didn't," Cordelia answered for him, and then moved away slightly and gestured with her hand at a passing cab. "Come on. We can talk about it on the way home."

He followed her wordlessly into the cab, and blinked again as she cuddled up close to him when the car pulled away from the curb.

"We're friends," she said quietly.

"Of course we are," he agreed.

She tilted her head to look up at him, and her eyes were dark, her face framed by her hair. "You know that I love you, right?"

For a second Doyle thought maybe his heart had stopped. Hearing it was... special. But nope, there it went, thumping along in his chest. "Yeah. I love you, too."

"But not like that." Cordy sighed. "I think it's good, you know? That we both realized it before we got into anything."

He kissed her forehead and smiled, a little bit sadly. "This way we can just be friends? Can't say that was something I was looking forward to hearing, but yeah. You're right. Besides, Angel..." Doyle realized what he'd been about to say and cut himself off, cursing silently.

Cordy waited for him to continue, then said, "Besides Angel what?"

"Nothing." And of course that would definitely be taken as meaning *something,* so Doyle tried to cover it up. "I just meant, maybe he wouldn't be too thrilled to have one of those office romance things going on."

"Angel?" Cordy snorted in disbelief. "He wouldn't notice if one of those office romance things was going on right underneath his nose. Yet another point in favor of you and Wesley, by the way."

"Me and...?" Doyle's brain raced ahead, leaving the thought unfinished, as he realized the assumption that Cordy'd been making all this time.

And realized that it was entirely possible she was right.

Of *course.* The way he'd felt when Wesley touched him. The weird way Wesley had been acting about the whole date thing in the first place, although he had to give the guy credit for doing a good job trying to cover it up. And just before Doyle had left, Wesley had straightened his tie, and there was something about the way they'd been looking at each other that had been...

"Of course you and Wesley," Cordy said, derailing his train of thought. "You think the rest of us haven't noticed the way you two look at each other?"

"The rest of you?"

"Well okay, me and Gunn. And Lorne."

"But not Angel?"

"Again with the not-even-when-underneath-his-nose." Cordy sat up so that she could look him in the eye.

Doyle was confused. "So is that what this was all about tonight? You proving to me that I have a thing for Wesley?"

Cordy nodded, then shrugged. "Well, not just that. Angel's been really pushing the whole me-and-you thing since you got back. He said something about how he forgot how we were together or something, and... I figured either way it'd work out, you know? Either we'd kiss and both be surprised and it'd go somewhere, or... not. And here we are," she finished brightly.

"Angel just wants you to be happy," Doyle told her.

"I know." Cordy's face took on a slightly dreamy look for a second, and Doyle wondered how she could be so astute about someone else's feelings but blind to her own. "The big dork."

"I think you should go back there," Doyle said impulsively. "Tonight. Tell him that things didn't work out between us."

"What?"

"Well like you said, he's been pushing for it. Not fair to let him get his hopes up about us having some kind of fairytale happy ending when that's not in the cards." Doyle wondered if he sounded like a babbling idiot, but there had to be a way. "Go on. How am I supposed to go back to Wes' place and tell him..." He took a deep breath, then said it aloud, "That there's something going on there, knowing that Angel's gonna expect you and me to walk in there tomorrow morning all hand-in-hand?"

Cordy's eyebrows lowered in a frown. "Yeah, you're right," she said, and then grinned as the rest of what he'd said sunk in. "You're really gonna say something to Wesley?"

"If you promise to go and tell Angel." Doyle prayed he wasn't doing the wrong thing, and that Angel would have the sense to tell Cordy how he felt about her once he knew that he wouldn't be standing in anyone's way.

"Okay." Cordy leaned forward to tell the cab driver of the change in plans, then sat back again. "But you'd better not chicken out on me here."

Doyle pictured Wesley in his mind's eye, imagined the touch of his hands. "Don't worry. I won't."

* * * * * 

Doyle took a deep breath and lifted his hand, and then another breath before he could make himself knock. He was nervous, but this time it really was the excited kind of nervous.

Wesley's expression when he opened the door was surprised, but there was something underneath it that Doyle wasn't sure he could identify. Wesley frowned. "What happened? Didn't Cordelia turn up?"

"She did. We went out, had dinner, a few drinks. Talked." Doyle stuck his hands in his jacket pocket and stared at Wesley.

"And yet, you're here." Wesley stepped back a little further, and then said, "I'm trying to invite you in. I assume you didn't come back just to report that you weren't going to be spending the night here."

"No. That's not why I came back." He went through the doorway and past Wesley in the apartment.

Wes closed the door and sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I'm being rude. I... well, I wasn't expecting you back -- not so soon, perhaps not at all. Which doesn't mean that you're unwelcome," he continued quickly. "Just a surprise. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Actually, I was hoping we could talk."

"Of course. Come and sit down. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

Doyle would have loved a drink, but he figured it was probably the last thing he actually needed, if he wanted to get through this conversation without making a fool of himself. "No, really. I'm good."

Wesley gestured at the couch and moved over near a chair himself, not sitting, like he was waiting for Doyle to sit first.

For some reason, that annoyed him. "Y'don't have to be all proper, you know," Doyle grumbled as he sat down. "We're supposed to be friends."

"Do you doubt that we are?" Wesley looked surprised and a little bit hurt, and Doyle's annoyance faded immediately into guilt.

"No." It was his turn to sigh. "Sorry. Geez, we're a pair tonight, aren't we?"

"We certainly seem to be taking the art of conversation to new lows." Wesley lowered himself down onto the edge of the chair. "Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?"

"Cordy," he blurted out.

Wesley blinked. "You wanted to speak with me about Cordelia?"

Doyle leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs, shaking his head. "No. I mean, Cordy was the one who thought I needed to talk to you."

"Really," Wesley said thoughtfully. "What about?"

Here was the hard part. "She and I, we realized... we aren't meant to be anything more than friends."

"I see."

"That maybe, you know, there was a time when things might have been different. But that time's come and gone. Nothing to do but admit it and move on. As friends."

"Sounds wise." Wes sounded kind of flat, not like himself, but Doyle forged ahead determinedly.

"Yeah. She has her moments -- she's no dummy, our Cordy."

"No, certainly not."

He was starting to wonder if Wesley was even paying attention to this conversation, or if he was having it all by himself. "So I told her maybe we should all move to Madagascar."

Wesley met his eyes and smiled. "I *am* listening, you know."

"Was startin' to wonder, what with all the 'I see's and all." Doyle grinned at him apologetically. "Anyway... like I was saying, Cordy's no dummy. Sometimes she sees stuff that goes right over my head."

"Like what?"

"Like," Doyle swallowed heavily and stood up, took a hesitant step toward Wesley, whose blue eyes were looking into his own, "Like, how I might feel about people."

"She was able to see that your feelings for her were those of a friend, you mean?"

"That, yeah. And that my feelings for... someone else... were -- *are* -- maybe more than just those of a friend. You know what I'm saying?"

Wesley's expression was patient, but didn't give anything away. "She helped you realize that you have romantic feelings for someone that you hadn't been seeing in that light before?"

"Yeah." He couldn't help but grin widely at that. Trust the Brit to dazzle him with his vocabulary. "'Cept she used smaller words."

Standing up himself, Wesley gestured with one hand toward the kitchen without looking away from Doyle. "Are you sure you don't... want anything?"

He took a few steps closer to the taller man. "Oh, I most definitely *do* want something."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I can get it. For you." Wesley's gaze was still locked on his, but he started to move away.

Doyle put a hand out to stop him, his fingers closing around Wes' wrist. "It isn't anything you need to get," he said slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. "It's you. I think. I mean... this is a first for me."

Wesley froze and looked at him very steadily. "I see," he said again, and took a shaky breath that Doyle could feel beneath his fingers.

"'Course, if you're... not interested, or don't want to... you know, see where it could go, that's okay." Doyle let go of Wesley. "And I hope we'd still be friends, even if you didn't want..."

"Doyle." The accent was more clipped when Wesley lowered his voice to interrupt. "I have to apologize. If there's any reason I've given you to believe that I -- "

But it was his turn to interrupt, as the sinking feeling in his gut when he realized what Wesley was going to say told him exactly how much he had actually wanted this more than anything else could have. "No. No, it's okay, really. No need to be sorry."

"*Doyle,*" Wesley said again. "It's amazing you ever let anyone get a word in edgewise. Will you please let me finish?"

"Yeah, sure." He owed him that much, at least.

"Thank you." Wesley removed his wrist from Doyle's grip, and then slid his own hand up along Doyle's arm to his shoulder. "As I was saying, I owe you an apology if I've given you any reason to think that I wasn't interested."

He blinked. "What?"

"I thought my feelings were rather obvious, actually," Wesley said, with a warm squeeze of his hand. "I had no idea that you weren't aware. In fact, I thought *you* weren't interested."

"Yeah, well... like I said, I didn't exactly realize I was. Chalk one up for the oblivious team, I guess." He grinned ruefully. "So we're both... interested?"

"It would appear so, yes," Wesley said.

"So what happens next?"

"I'm not sure. What would you like to have happen?"

Doyle let his own hand come up and cover Wesley's where it lingered on his shoulder. "I have no idea. Until twenty minutes ago I hadn't even realized how I felt -- it's a bit much to take in all at once, you know?"

"We could sit down and have a drink? Talk?"

He nodded. "Okay."

Wesley went over to a cabinet, got out a bottle, and poured some scotch into two glasses. Handing one to Doyle, he gestured with the other toward the couch and said, "And this would be the part where we actually sit down."

Doyle nodded again. "Right." They both moved over and sat down -- not at opposite ends of the couch, but not quite next to each other, either. For the life of him, Doyle couldn't think of a thing to say. He took a large sip of the scotch, opened his mouth to say something -- anything -- and then took another sip. Finally, he said, "Wow, this sucks."

"I beg your pardon?" Wesley looked almost offended, his eyes slightly wider than usual behind his glasses.

"Not... *this,*" Doyle clarified quickly. "I mean... you know, this whole beginning stuff."

"We could skip it?" Wesley asked. He sipped his own drink and then licked his lower lip thoughtfully; Doyle was temporarily mesmerized. "Just move on to something past the beginning part?"

Not knowing what else to do, Doyle drained the rest of the scotch from his glass in one big swallow and lunged for Wes, grabbing onto his shoulder and kissing him.

It had started out as near-desperation, but that faded almost as soon as his lips touched Wesley's. Sitting, the other man wasn't taller enough for it to make a difference, and once he was past the strangeness of *actually* kissing a guy -- because it wasn't like he hadn't thought about it, sometimes, though Wes himself hadn't figured into those daydreams -- it was just a kiss like any other. But no, that wasn't true. If the kiss with Cordelia earlier had been sweet and even somewhat chaste, this was a liquid nearer to smoke than fire. Smoldering, heady, tasting of the whiskey they'd been drinking.

Doyle pulled back and looked at Wesley -- his eyes seemed darker than usual, though it was probably a trick of the light. His lips were slightly parted and he reached up and took off his glasses, setting them and his glass down on the table next to Doyle's.

"That was... well, I'd have to say that was a first," Wesley said.

"Yeah, me too. Like I said, the whole guy-kissing thing isn't something I've ever put into practice."

Wesley shook his head slightly. "No, I didn't mean that. I've... been with men, before. But I've never had a first kiss like that."

He felt a little surge of pride at that, then said, "Wait. You mean that in a good way, right?"

"Yes."

"Well. Good." Doyle was back at that place of not knowing what to do, but he figured kissing Wes had worked well enough last time, so he leaned in again and gave it another try.

Wesley's shoulder wasn't quite as slender as it looked under his clothes, and he was wiry, sturdy. It didn't feel like anything could break him. Wes' tongue slicked over Doyle's upper lip and he groaned, and then suddenly Doyle's hands were at the collar of Wes' shirt, fumbling with the buttons, shaking with the overpowering desire to feel Wesley's skin under his fingertips.

"Shh," Wesley said, his own hands coming up and stilling Doyle's. "We've plenty of time. Relax." He reached for the tie Doyle had forgotten he was wearing and started to loosen it. "Although I do think you'd be more comfortable without this."

Doyle thought he'd be more comfortable without his pants than without his tie at that moment, but getting rid of any clothing sounded like a good idea, even if it was just the tie. He captured Wesley's lips again with his own, kissing no less desperately in spite of the order to relax. "Jesus, you taste good," he breathed.

Wes had gotten rid of the tie and somehow managed to undo the top couple of buttons of Doyle's shirt, and now he slid his mouth down along the sensitive skin of Doyle's throat, teeth nipping gently.

Gasping and squirming, Doyle grabbed onto Wesley's hair, not hard enough to hurt him, just enough to encourage him to keep doing what he was doing. Wes' hands undid another couple of buttons and pushed the shirt down off Doyle's shoulder, and that warm, wet mouth trailed lower and fastened around Doyle's nipple, tongue flicking over it. "Yeah," he said, squirming again in an attempt to give his cock either some more room or some more friction. Something.

Wesley's hand moved down and the heel of it pressed against Doyle's erection, exactly where he needed it.

Doyle groaned in relief. "Jeez, you weren't kiddin' when you said you'd been with guys."

"Does it bother you?" Wesley straightened, meeting Doyle's eyes.

In response, Doyle pushed his hips up. "Not if it means you're gonna keep touching me like that," he said, aware that he was breathing kind of heavily.

"This is all right? You wouldn't rather... take things more slowly?" Wes' fingers were tracing him through his slacks almost absently, like he didn't realize he was doing it.

Doyle slid his hand around to the back of Wesley's neck and pulled him in close, their noses nearly touching. "This is perfect," he said, with an honesty that made his heart clench in his chest. "I wouldn't want to do it any other way. Or with anyone else." Without waiting for a response, he tilted his head and kissed Wes again.

That kiss seemed to give what had already been set in motion a violent shove forward -- they were struggling with each other's clothes, trying to unbutton and unfasten. Doyle's shirt was on the couch behind him and Wes' was on the floor, and Doyle couldn't believe how fantastic Wesley's skin felt under his hands. Smooth and warm, and somehow familiar.

"We could," Wes suggested between kisses, "move to the bedroom?"

Doyle groaned and held onto the other man tighter. "Don't wanna move," he said, panting. Wesley had unzipped his trousers and slid a hand inside, and was now stroking his cock lightly through the thin cotton fabric of his boxers. And Doyle was trembling, aching. "I think you might be killin' me, here. You don't want a dead man in your bed, do you?" He closed his eyes as he realized the many levels of implications behind those words. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Wesley said. "And no, I rather prefer you this way." Wes kissed him some more, letting Doyle's tongue do whatever it wanted inside his mouth, then pulled back and slid down off the couch onto the floor. His hands yanked impatiently at the waistband of Doyle's slacks, and Doyle lifted his arse up off the sofa to make it easier.

When Wesley licked the head of his cock, Doyle thought he was going to explode right then. He'd been kissing a *guy,* and now said guy was licking his cock, and that talented, talented tongue was tracing its way down to his balls. He wondered how many times Wes had done this, then decided he didn't care as Wesley started to suck on his cock and the pressure began to build to an unbearable level.

"Wes," Doyle gasped, trying to sound a warning.

He knew Wesley must have heard him, but he didn't stop. Doyle's fingers were twisted in Wesley's hair, and his thigh muscles ached with tension that coiled tighter and tighter as Wes' tongue spiraled and the suction increased.

It was too much, and even as a little voice inside Doyle's head chanted that he should try to hold off, he was coming, groaning and throwing his head back onto the couch. He shuddered with the force of it, the heels of his shoes digging into the carpet beneath him, hand still clenched in Wesley's hair.

Wrung out and panting to catch his breath, he forced himself to let go of Wes, letting his arms fall limply at his sides. "Jesus," he said finally.

Wes' expression might have been a tiny bit smug, but there was also something hopeful there. Open, wanting praise, but not willing to ask for it. There was a moment of silence in which Doyle didn't know what to say, and Wes' face fell. "I'm sorry," he said, reaching for his shirt on the floor, and shifting his weight back away from Doyle, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. "I shouldn't have... it was too soon, you weren't sure..."

Doyle leaned forward and caught Wesley's arm. "Stop. Do you always do this to yourself?"

Uncertainly, Wes glanced up at him. "You're not...?"

"Not what? Pissed off? Feeling taken advantage of?" Doyle shook his head. "No. A little stunned maybe, but not in a bad way." He realized he was three-quarters of the way undressed, and sighed. He shifted his weight and yanked his slacks back up, then pulled on Wes, trying to get the other man to sit on the sofa next to him.

Wesley hesitated, then moved and sat down. "You aren't upset?"

"Not like that." Doyle rubbed a hand over his face. "Look, I'm not gonna lie to ya. There's this tiny part of me that thinks two guys together isn't, you know, nature's way."

"Actually, there are numerous cases of same-sex relationships in nature," Wesley started, eliciting a grin from Doyle. The guy could come up with a scientific explanation for anything.

He held up a hand. "That's great, and seriously, I'd love to hear all about it later. I'm not lookin' for you to make it all okay -- it's just one of those things. And I'm not upset. Christ, only an idiot would be upset after something that amazing."

Wesley smiled shyly. "It was... amazing?"

"Are you kidding?" Despite the conversation that they were trying to have, Doyle had to kiss Wesley again, lingeringly and gently. Reassuringly. "Beyond amazing. Thing is..." he paused, trying to come up with the right words. "It might take a bit of time for me to get totally used to all this."

"I understand." It sounded like something Wesley was saying because he thought he ought to. "And please believe that it wasn't my intention to pressure you into anything. If you'd rather I backed off, I'd be more than -- "

Doyle reached over and put his hand on Wesley's obvious erection, letting his palm rest on the smooth cotton of Wes' slacks.

Wesley's breath hitched slightly in his chest. "Oh," he said.

"You didn't think I was just gonna leave you hanging, did you?" He let his fingers trace the length of Wes' cock lightly, getting himself familiar with the territory.

Wes swallowed heavily, his eyes half-closed. "You don't have to."

"I want to." Doyle liked this look on Wes -- wanton, his lips just a little bit swollen from their earlier kissing. He undid the button on Wesley's trousers slowly, then slid the zipper down and slipped his hand under the waistband of Wes' underwear.

"Oh God." Wes' eyes were closed now, one hand gripping the edge of the sofa cushion like he was trying to hold himself together.

Wesley's cock felt good in Doyle's hand. Hot and heavy, weighted with arousal and pulsing slightly as it got even harder in his grip. "Would this be the time to ask if you want to move to the bedroom?" Doyle asked, expecting Wes would give the same answer he himself had given earlier.

But Wesley surprised him, opening his eyes and looking at him with desire. "I'd love to move to the bedroom. If you're sure?"

Doyle kissed him, then stood up, unable to hide a small grin at the sound of Wes' noise of disappointment at the sudden lack of contact. "I'm sure," he said, toeing off his shoes and leaving them where they fell, and taking Wesley's hand. "Come on."

* * * * * 

It felt strange, letting Doyle be the one to lead him to the bedroom instead of the other way around, but Wesley was desperately aroused and willing to let Doyle be in charge. The last thing he wanted was for Doyle to feel that he'd been pressured into any of this.

Once they were next to the bed, Doyle's courage seemed to fail him. "What now?"

Wesley kissed him, running his hands up Doyle's back where the skin was smooth and silky. The smaller man was so pale that he nearly glowed in the dim light. "Anything you want," Wesley said, with their lips still touching.

"Right. Well, what about what you want?" Doyle's hands were pushing Wesley's slacks and underwear down over his hips, and Wesley moved cooperatively, allowing Doyle to undress him. "We could lie down?" Doyle suggested, shoving down his own clothes and letting them fall to the floor. "Seems like a shame to let this big bed go to waste."

Wesley immediately sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Doyle down along with him. "Promise that you'll stop me if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

Doyle snorted, then pushed Wesley down onto the bed and straddled him, causing a groan to rise unbidden from Wesley's chest. "Same here." He kissed Wesley, hard, grinding his body against Wes' insistent cock. "Feeling uncomfortable yet?" he asked, with a little grin.

Wesley groaned again -- it had been rather a long time since he'd been in anything close to this position, and the feel of Doyle's balls and cock and thighs against his own was mind-numbingly good. He was quite certain that in moments he'd lose the ability to speak altogether. "Please," he said, trembling as he tried to retain control.

Doyle's mouth was on his throat, then lower, biting gently at a nipple, and that only made him tremble harder. "Can't say I know what I'm doing here," Doyle said. "But if it's any consolation, I've been told I'm a quick learner. Well, in anything but fashion."

Wesley's chuckle at that turned into a small cry when Doyle's fingers closed around his cock, stroking gently. He could feel Doyle's own cock, hard once more, pressed against his thigh, rubbing there as Doyle touched him. "Fuck me," Wesley said without thinking, and then felt heat in his cheeks that had more to do with embarrassment than arousal as he realized how that must have sounded.

Doyle's hand stilled for what seemed like a very long moment, then resumed its careful stroking. "You want me to?"

"Yes. *Please.*" Wesley could feel himself shaking all over with need.

With a grin that transformed his face, Doyle nodded. "I might need a few pointers," he said. "You have any, you know...?"

"In the bedside table drawer," Wesley said, not knowing if Doyle was asking for condoms or lubricant, although it didn't matter, as the answer was the same either way.

He could see Doyle's hands trembling a little bit as well, as he got out the necessary supplies and rolled on a condom. Somehow, it made Wesley feel better that they were both unsure -- they were in this together.

Wes gasped as Doyle teased him with a slick finger. For a man with no admitted homosexual experience, he certainly seemed to have an instinctive knack for the basics.

Wesley spread his thighs further apart to grant Doyle easier access. "Just like that," he said encouragingly, as Doyle's finger pushed inside, stretching him. "God, more. Please."

Doyle obeyed, and in less than a minute had three fingers moving gently in and out of Wesley, whose cock was leaking all over his stomach and who was shaking with a desperation greater than he'd ever known.

"Please," Wesley said. It was begging now, there was no other word for it. "I need... you. In me."

He felt the head of Doyle's cock probing at him, the angle not quite right, and he shifted position to make the way easier.

"Jesus," Doyle muttered, as he pushed in an inch or so. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. You aren't," Wes reassured him, feeling the burn and stretch, and canting his hips.

That movement seemed to surprise Doyle, who suddenly slid all the way inside, filling Wes. "Christ. Holy... *why* didn't I ever do this before?" Doyle sounded stunned.

"You're doing it now." Wesley pulled him down for a kiss, and Doyle surprised *him* by pushing his tongue into Wesley's mouth at the same time he started to thrust carefully.

"Had no idea," Doyle murmured into Wes' mouth, still kissing, still thrusting. "Jesus, you're so good. So hot, and... never felt anything like it."

Wesley slid his hands down to Doyle's arse, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. He was so close already -- he thought that he might be able to come just from the feel of Doyle's cock inside him, from the way his own cock was rubbing against Doyle's stomach, trapped between them as it was. "Doyle," he gasped, as his legs started trembling again.

Doyle pushed himself up onto one arm, looking down at Wes' cock and then back up into his eyes. Deliberately, he reached down and took Wes' cock into his hand, stroking quickly and firmly as his thrusts speeded up. "Come on, Wes," he said, rather breathlessly, his hips moving faster, slamming himself into Wes with impressive strength. The sensation was too much -- Wesley was writhing, trying for less, more, something. "Come for me."

And Wesley came, with a shout that seemed to echo in the room, his climax pouring from him in a rush that left him light-headed and gasping for air.

"Yes," he panted, when he'd recovered enough to speak. "God, yes. Fuck me."

Startled, wide green eyes met his for one second before closing, then Doyle's face contorted into a grimace of pleasure as he came as well, pounding into Wesley as he did. His face flickered for just a moment -- human, demon, human -- then he collapsed forward onto Wesley, limp and sated.

They were a sticky mess, but in that moment Wesley couldn't have cared in the slightest. He trailed a hand up Doyle's back, ran fingers through his fine dark hair. He drew in a breath to speak, but Doyle must have felt it, because he quickly said, "If you ask me if I'm all right I'm gonna yell at you."

Wesley blinked.

Doyle pushed up onto one elbow and kissed Wesley's lower lip. "That's what you were gonna say, wasn't it."

Wesley lifted his head and caught Doyle's lips with his own again, kissing him with a little whimper of pleasure. Despite what they'd just done, he wanted more. "Maybe?" he ventured finally. "I have to admit that it's a bit disconcerting how well you seem to know me." A thought struck him. "Or are you like this with everyone?"

"Insightful's only my middle name in an alternate universe," Doyle said, with a shake of his head. He shifted his lower body and then eased out of Wesley, eliciting another small whimper. "Sorry about, you know, that thing."

"Er... what thing would that be?" Wesley was genuinely confused.

Doyle turned away, sitting up on the edge of the bed and, from his movements, apparently taking off the condom. "You know, the... demon thing." His voice was low.

"I beg your pardon?" Wesley sat up as well, reaching for Doyle's shoulder. "I work for -- well, technically *with,* at this point, I suppose -- a vampire. And I'm perfectly aware of your demon heritage."

Doyle stood up and moved across the room to throw the condom into the trash. He didn't turn around. "Guess I've got some issues with it myself," he admitted slowly, like it was hard to get the words out. "I can't always control it."

Wesley got up and went to him, slipping an arm around the smaller man and pulling him back against his own chest. "I dare say it's not necessary that you control it," he said. "And I'm sorry that it bothers you. But it doesn't bother me."

"Yeah?" Doyle's voice was hopeful, and he turned slightly in Wesley's grasp to look at him.

"Not at all." Wesley kissed him, their tongues meeting tentatively, with less passion now. "I care about you. The fact that you sometimes wear another face doesn't detract from that."

Doyle turned around more completely in Wes' arms, putting his own around Wesley's waist, holding him close.

They kissed softly for a few minutes, and then Wesley murmured, "Come back to bed."

"You sure? I didn't do this just to get off the couch, you know." Doyle sounded like he was trying for humor, and was aware that he wasn't quite succeeding.

Wesley kissed him again and walked backward toward the bed. He could feel Doyle trembling just slightly. "It's been a very long couple of days, hasn't it."

"I guess." They settled into the bed, arms around each other, their breathing slowing as they both relaxed after their exertions.

The room was quiet -- the walls in his apartment building weren't particularly thin, and it was often quiet at night. It was one of the things Wesley liked about his home; it made it easy to concentrate if there was something he was working on. Doyle was warm against him, and Wesley felt more at peace than he had in some time.

"You think they'll be able to tell?" Doyle asked softly, after a while.

"Tell what? That we slept together?" Wesley's fingers traced down Doyle's spine. "I can't say for certain how keen Angel's sense of smell is, but my guess would be he might be able to tell, yes. Unless we were to take an awfully long shower in the morning."

Doyle sighed. "Yeah. I'd forgotten about the smell thing. Think me of all people'd be able to remember that, huh?"

Wesley could feel himself tensing at the implications that he was drawing from the conversation. "I didn't realize that people knowing was going to be such a problem."

Doyle lifted his head immediately, his eyes seeking out Wesley's, the arm that had been thrown over Wesley's waist sliding back so that his hand was resting on Wes' hip. "It's not. Not like that. I just... don't know what to say." He sounded genuinely apologetic.

"How to tell people, you mean?" Wesley tried to force himself to relax -- a contradiction in terms if there ever was one. Tried to be understanding. "That you're... that you might be...?" Bisexual? Gay? He wasn't sure why he couldn't quite bring himself to say either of the words.

"It's not even *that,*" Doyle said, drawing a little pattern over Wes' hip in a way that was rather distracting. "I mean... do I say 'Yeah sure, we had a thing'? Or is it... more than that?"

"Oh, I see." Wesley had thought he'd made his feelings on the situation quite clear, but perhaps not. "When I said that I didn't prefer casual relationships, I meant it."

Doyle's eyes were dark and troubled. He was quiet for a long moment, almost as if he were afraid to ask for further clarification. Finally, he said, "Don't leave me hangin' here, man."

More than a bit disturbed that he was going to have to be the one to spell it out, Wesley nonetheless took the proverbial bull by the horns. "I don't want this... between us... to be a casual fling. In fact, I'd rather prefer it to be... something serious. I've grown to care for you a great deal just in the time you've been back. But if you're not interested in this going further, I'll understand. If nothing else, I'd like -- "

Doyle cut him off with a fierce kiss, the hand on Wesley's hip sliding back to grip his buttock. "Jesus, is that really all you think of yourself?" Doyle asked, when they separated. "I'm the one who should be saying that sorta thing. I mean, look at you -- you're smart, Angel obviously respects you enough to put you in charge. Not to mention you give the best fucking blow jobs on the planet." There was a slight flush in the man's cheeks, as though with this last admission he'd surprised himself.

The comments were flattering, and Wesley suspected that he might be blushing as well. "Er, thank you. So you're saying..."

"I'm saying," Doyle said slowly and clearly, "That I care about you too. And that I, you know, want this to be serious."

"I'm glad," Wesley said, feeling relief and what might have been joy. He kissed Doyle again.

They settled in a second time, Wesley's chin resting against Doyle's shoulder, one arm thrown over the other man's chest. He could feel Doyle's breath, warm on his skin.

"This is nice," Doyle said after a while, his words slurred with what sounded like exhaustion. His chin lifted slightly and he nuzzled Wesley's temple.

"It is," Wesley agreed. He didn't move, thinking that if Doyle was as close to sleep as it seemed, it wouldn't do to wake him. "Shh. Go to sleep. It will still be nice in the morning."

But there was no response, and Wesley realized that Doyle had already drifted off.

* * * * * 

"So how was it?" Cordelia asked, bouncing up to Doyle as soon as he and Wesley walked into the lobby of the hotel. "Did you tell him? What did he say?" She crossed her arms and raised both eyebrows. "Did you guys have sex?"

Doyle shot Wesley a look of panic. "I thought you said they wouldn't be able to tell."

Cordelia snorted. "Smooth."

Wesley gave Cordy a measured look. "I suppose it's too much to think that you might be capable of being discreet?"

"Discreet?" Cordy snorted again. "Is that like tact?"

"Of course it would," Wesley sighed, answering his own question. He patted Doyle's shoulder comfortingly.

"Not sure I'm ready to announce it to the world," Doyle told Cordy, sticking his hands into his pockets sheepishly. He felt like an idiot for being so freaked out about the whole thing, especially for Wes' sake, but it was just, well, a bit much. He'd never handled the big changes well.

"Oh. Right." Cordy nodded at him like he was feeble and she didn't want to upset him.

"Something going on you all want to tell me about?" Gunn's rich deep voice startled all three of them, and they turned as one to look at him. He was leaning up against the wall -- he'd probably just come from downstairs, Doyle thought.

"Um... well, that is to say..." Doyle knew his stammering was likely making it seem worse than it already did, but for the life of him he couldn't come up with anything meaningful. "Um... Wesley and me, we..." Nope, that was it. He was defeated. He looked at Wes, hoping that the other man would read the desire to do the right thing in his eyes.

"We're..." Wesley apparently couldn't manage more than one word. At least it made Doyle feel a little bit better that he wasn't the only one.

"They got all couple-y last night," Cordy stage-whispered, from behind her hand.

"They *what?*" Gunn shifted himself away from the wall and sauntered over closer almost casually, but there was something in the way he moved that spoke of his surprise just as loudly as his voice had.

"Yes, well..." Wesley's chin was raised, that look of determination that Doyle was already familiar with back in his eyes, flashing behind his glasses. "It's not as if you didn't know."

"What, that you like guys?" Gunn said. "Yeah, I knew that part. Didn't know that you'd hook up with just anybody. Someone you barely even *know.*"

Wes and Gunn were standing facing each other now, squared off. "He's been staying with me since he got back," Wes said. "I don't think you're qualified to judge how well I know him."

"Maybe not, but I know *you.*" Gunn crossed his arms. "Listen, I'm just looking out for you here."

"I know. And I appreciate it. But I can make my own decisions."

Doyle glanced at Cordy, who was standing there watching the two of them talk just like he was, without interrupting. He was actually kind of surprised that she was showing so much restraint.

Gunn looked at Wesley for a long moment. "Doesn't mean I have to agree with them," he said finally.

Wes blinked, and Doyle thought he sounded disappointed when he said, "I don't need your permission."

"Um, is there some reason not to be happy here?" Cordy piped up, using her you-people'd-better-do-as-I-say voice. "Is this not a good thing?"

"Depends on where you're standing I guess," Gunn said.

"From where *I'm* standing, this is a very good thing." Wes gave Cordy a little smile like he was thanking her for the support.

"Me too," Doyle said, and turned to Gunn. "Look, you have something against me? Because call me insane but I thought we were gettin' along okay until now."

Gunn shrugged. "We were."

"So, what? Now you've suddenly dug up some dirt on me, learned that I sacrifice goats in my spare time?" Doyle could tell that Wes was having a hard time letting him deal with the conversation on his own, and reached out to squeeze Wes' hand quickly, not caring if it made the situation worse.

"Look, I don't *know* you." Gunn sounded genuinely uptight. "Maybe you're a great guy. Maybe not. I just don't wanna see Wes get hurt."

Doyle nodded. "I don't wanna see him get hurt either. And I sure as heck don't want to be the one hurtin' him. But I can't promise you that nothing's gonna go wrong -- only that I'm gonna do my best not to let it."

Gunn's eyes were dark, but they softened a little bit as Doyle's sincerity got through. Doyle couldn't help but wonder if maybe the guy was a bit jealous, not that that was something he'd suggest without expecting to get his jaw broken. "Good."

"So we're okay?"

The answer was slow in coming. "Yeah," Gunn said eventually. "Guess I just need a little time to get used to the idea."

That pulled a chuckle out of Doyle. "Tell me about it."

"Well thank God *that's* over," Cordy said, flipping her hair back with a dramatic sigh. "If you guys can't play nice I'm gonna have to get Angel to smack some sense into you."

"Have me what?" Angel asked, mildly enough, as he came out into the lobby.

Doyle grinned tentatively. "Cordy here was just talking about the fact that me and Wes, well, we're..."

"Yeah. I know." Angel didn't seem upset or surprised, just matter of fact.

"You weren't kiddin' about the discreet thing, were ya?" Doyle asked Wes.

"No, I really wasn't."

"Bite me," Cordy said. "And no, Mr. Broody Pants, I wasn't talking to you. Doyle, you didn't really expect me to come back here last night and *not* say something to Angel?"

"Guess that woulda been asking for the moon," Doyle said, giving her a wry grin. "So how'd that go?"

To his amazement, Cordy blushed. Actually *blushed,* and dropped her eyes down to the floor. "Um... okay."

"Yeah?"

She glanced back up at him with a shy smile on her face. "Uh-huh."

"Ohhh," Gunn said, miming smacking himself upside the head. "You're talking about that kissy face thing that I wasn't supposed to see."

Doyle grinned and looked at Angel, who had his hands in his pockets and was refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "Geez, man," he said to Gunn. "No wonder you reacted the way you did."

"Thought I woke up in an alternate dimension," Gunn agreed. "'Course, the last time that happened -- um, the alternate dimension part, not the waking up part -- everyone was green, so at least it was easy to tell."

"This isn't something to joke about," Wesley said sternly, his expression grim. "Angel shouldn't be taking chances with this sort of thing. No matter how slim the chances that he might experience a moment of true happiness while kissing Cordelia -- "

"Hey!" Cordy's hands were on her hips. "I'll have you know that kissing me is a *recipe* for perfect happiness."

"She's not far wrong," Doyle added, wanting to contribute even though he knew he probably wasn't being helpful.

"*Angel* should know better," Wes finished.

"You think I haven't thought about it?" Angel's mood had gone from sheepish to defensive in light of the accusations. "Do you *really* think I'd take any chances with Cordy's safety? With anyone's?"

"You already have," Wes pointed out.

"It was just kissing!" Angel protested.

"And you'll be satisfied with that for the long haul, will you?" Wes crossed his arms and frowned. Doyle thought he couldn't have looked more serious if Angel actually *was* Angelus.

Although actually, come to think of it, under those circumstances they'd probably all be cowering in fear.

"Look, Angel's right," Cordy said. "It was just kissing. It doesn't mean anything else is going to happen."

Wesley's voice was gentler when he spoke to her. "Nothing else *can* happen. It's not an option."

"I know that. *We* know that." Cordy included Angel with a glance in his direction, inching toward him in a way Doyle didn't even think she was conscious of.

"Then you shouldn't be takin' chances," Gunn said, obviously not wanting to be left out of the discussion.

"You were fine with it when you walked in on us," Cordy shot back.

"That's 'cause I wasn't thinking about the whole happiness thing making Angel back into a natural born killer," Gunn said, shaking his head back and forth. Doyle wasn't sure if the guy was mad at himself or at Cordy and Angel, and he tried not to be even the tiniest bit glad that this situation took the heat off of him and Wes.

"Isn't there something we could do?" he heard himself asking. "You know... some way to change the curse?"

"The curse is his soul," Wesley said patiently. "The happiness clause is... an addendum."

"Well, fine. Isn't there some way we could change the addendum? Like the magical equivalent of... a paper shredder?"

Wesley frowned again, but this time the expression was more thoughtful than serious. "We don't want to shred it," he said. "More white it out. But yes, I suppose there might be a way. We'd have to do a great deal of research, of course."

"We can do that," Cordy said. "Right? I mean, that's what we do."

Doyle nodded at her. "Sure it is." But his eyes sought out Wesley's, and he wasn't real confident that what he saw there was nearly as reassuring.

* * * * * 

"You don't think we're gonna find anything," Doyle said quietly.

Wesley looked up from the book in his lap, realizing that his neck had stiffened up only when he felt a twinge. "Did I say that?"

"You didn't have to." Doyle came into the office, closing the door behind himself. "You think it's a lost cause and you just want to put on a good show of trying before you say there's nothing we can do."

Wesley felt a surge of dismay at being so misunderstood. "I'm not putting on a show -- I'm looking for a solution to the problem." He carefully put a slip of paper into the book as a place holder and then set it down on the desk. "Do you really think that I'd -- "

Doyle cut him off before he could go any farther. "No! No. I didn't meant that the way it sounded." The expression on Wesley's face must have been reflecting his dismay, because Doyle came closer and sat down in the chair closest to the desk, perched on the edge like he might not stay sitting long. "Sorry. I just meant you're not convinced we're gonna find anything, but you didn't want to disappoint them."

Wesley relaxed a little bit. "Well. I suppose that's true -- I don't want to disappoint them, and I suspect that I'm going to."

"This isn't your fault," Doyle said.

He couldn't help but think that it would be if he couldn't find a solution and Cordelia and Angel's hopes were shattered, but he said, "No, I know."

Doyle looked at him critically. "You're just sayin' that so I'll drop it, aren't you."

A little laugh escaped Wesley, a laugh he hadn't realized was there. He took his glasses off and rubbed his temple, head tilted to one side watching Doyle even as he chuckled. "You really do know me awfully well, don't you."

Grinning, Doyle got up and came closer, dragging his chair behind him until his knees were touching the edge of Wesley's chair, then leaning in to take Wesley's glasses from his fingers. Wesley let him, even though the glasses were a bit of a security measure, and continued to sit there as Doyle leaned in even closer and kissed him.

God it was good. Doyle might not have been a big man, but he kissed as if he were -- strong, full of intensity. There was nothing of hesitancy or insecurity, not now. Wesley might have thought Doyle had been kissing men all his life.

"You're..." Wesley stopped, tried again. "That is, I... should be working."

"Cordy and Angel went upstairs to get a book Angel was lookin' for," Doyle said. "And Gunn's out."

The temptation to continue was enormous, but the sense of guilt at what he ought to be doing was greater. Wesley sighed and took his glasses back. "I assure you it's not that I don't want to. I just... need to do this. You understand."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, then kissed him again before standing. "Okay. I finished up with that book you gave me before... didn't find anything, but then, can't say that this kind of thing is my..." He broke off, his eyes suddenly going a bit unfocused, as if he were looking at something far away.

Wesley knew what that look meant; not just from Doyle, but also from Cordelia. He had time to get up and push Doyle back down into the chair before Doyle trembled and then spasmed in the throes of a vision. Wes kept one hand on the arm of the chair as a sort of makeshift stabilizer, and curled the other around the back of Doyle's skull, a cushion against the possibility that Doyle might hit his head on the hard back of the chair.

"It's all right," he said, wishing that there was something more that he could. Doyle's head jerked backward, bruising Wesley's hand on the seat back, but he barely felt it for the adrenaline coursing through him. Doyle's own hand tightened on the arm of the chair to the point where it looked like it would be bruised as well, from the sheer force of it.

"Gotta stop 'em," Doyle muttered. "Jesus, no..."

Wesley wasn't sure if Doyle even knew he was there. "What do you see?" he asked in his gentlest voice.

Doyle jerked again, then gasped and sat up a bit, shaking his head as if throwing off the worst of it. "Upstairs," he managed to say, and the urgency in his eyes propelled Wesley to his feet before he even thought. "Cordy... *Angelus.*"

Fear gripping his heart, Wesley scrabbled in the desk drawer for a stake and took off into the lobby and up the staircase, not waiting to see if Doyle was following. If he could, he would. If not, someone had to stop Angelus.

He turned at the top of the stairs and ran down the hallway as fast as he could, aware that his breath was catching in his throat, and not just from the physical exertion. Upon reaching Angel's door, Wesley flung it open and raced inside, halfway into the room even as the door slammed into the wall beside it. "Cordelia, get back!"

Cordelia blinked at him from her... perfectly innocent position sitting on the bed. Angel was crouched over against the wall, where he'd obviously been looking at the spines of the books in his collection.

"Um... you feeling okay, Wesley?" Cordelia's tone had a condescending edge to it that he hadn't heard in some time.

"Doyle had a vision," Wesley explained, panting slightly. "He saw you and Angel."

"Uh-huh." Cordelia's eyes were wide with mock patience. "And look! Here we are. Good thing the Powers That Be decided to scramble up his brain to share *that* important piece of information."

"Angelus," said Doyle's voice from the doorway. He was leaning on the door frame, looking pale and shaken and distinctly the worse for wear from his trip upstairs. Wesley glanced at Angel, still crouched in front of the bookcase, clearly confused and a bit hurt, and then moved over to support Doyle with an arm around his waist.

"What are you talking about?" Angel asked, getting up and moving over closer to both of them, at the same time Cordelia did as well.

"Saw the two of you," Doyle said, his hand where it gripped the door frame white-knuckled. "Together. And then Angelus."

There was no missing the tiny half-step away from Angel that Cordelia took. "Uh-uh," she said tightly. "No way. *So* not gonna happen." Her chin raised defiantly. "Why would the PTB show you something like that when it's *not* going to happen?"

Doyle was still standing there, wavering slightly, and Wesley urged him into the room. "Come sit down. Do you need anything?"

Angel helped on the other side, and they got Doyle sitting on the edge of the bed. "Half a bottle of aspirin'd be good," Doyle groaned, flopping back onto the mattress with his forearm over his eyes.

Cordelia perched herself next to him, reaching back to stroke his hair as Angel went off in search of painkillers. "Tell me what you saw," she said.

Shifting his arm an inch higher so that he could look at her, Doyle opened his eyes. "Kissing, along with some other stuff that... involved less clothes. Then Angelus, and you dead."

"It was a warning." Angel stood awkwardly near the bathroom door. "The Powers That Be telling us that this isn't an option."

Wesley kept quiet, because he didn't disagree with this assessment.

"Well, I for one say 'Thanks for the warning,'" Cordelia said, standing up and crossing her arms.

Angel came over and handed a glass of water and three tablets to Wesley, who lay a hand on the flat of Doyle's stomach. "You'll have to sit up to take these."

Obeying with a slight groan, Doyle swallowed the pills with a sip of the water, then gave the glass back to Wesley, who wasn't sure what to do with it. Then he flopped back down, curling up on his side facing Wesley. "You guys can't let this happen."

"Hello? What part of 'Thanks for the warning' did you not understand?" Cordelia asked, meeting Wesley's eyes because Doyle was turned away from her. "We're *so* not gonna let this happen."

"Of course we're not." Angel's voice was resolute, determined.

Wesley ran his own hand through Doyle's hair, marveling at the way Doyle curled further into his touch. "I think it's best if the two of you aren't alone together for some time. Until this attraction dies down a bit."

"Where were we?" Cordelia asked. "In the vision."

Doyle blinked, then sighed as Wesley shifted his thumb to rub one temple, and closed his eyes. "In here. Angel's rooms."

"Okay, so maybe just to be on the safe side I should stay out of here too." Cordelia bit her lower lip. "Angel, I -- "

"It's okay, Cordy," Angel said quickly, cutting off whatever she'd been about to say. "We knew this wasn't... that we couldn't... it's okay. I think this is the way it was meant to be, you know?"

"Yeah, well personally I've had about enough of Fate sticking it's big old nose in my business," Cordelia said.

Angel shifted uneasily. "Maybe you should, you know, go home. Just for the rest of the day."

Cordelia moved back over to the bed and sat behind Doyle, rubbing the back of his shoulder. Wesley felt a slight twinge of jealousy, which was absurd since his own hand was touching Doyle more intimately than a friendly shoulder rub, not to mention the fact that Doyle and Cordelia had already decided all on their own that they were nothing more than friends. "You okay?" Cordelia asked Doyle gently.

Doyle twisted around slightly so that he could look at her. "I'm fine, Princess. I think Angel's right -- why don't you get out of here for a while?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Maybe a little space might be a good thing." Wesley watched as her eyes met Angel's again. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Angel said. "I'll be here."

Doyle turned again, looking at Wesley this time. "Hey, you think you could walk Cordy down? I could use a few minutes with the big guy here."

Wesley brushed his thumb over Doyle's temple one last time. He wanted to lean down and kiss him, even just on the temple, but thought it best not to. "Of course. I'll see you both downstairs."

* * * * * 

Doyle waited until the door closed behind Wes and Cordy before forcing himself to sit up. His head was aching though, so he moved up closer to the head of the bed and leaned back against the headboard.

Angel was still standing there watching him.

"I'm sorry, man," Doyle said, closing his eyes for a few seconds and trying to let the darkness soothe his head.

"It's not your fault." There was a dip in the mattress as Angel sat down on the side of the bed.

"Actually yeah, it is." He sighed. "After last night, I was the one who encouraged her to come back here and talk to you. If I hadn't done that, maybe none of this would have happened."

Angel patted his knee, tentatively, like he thought Doyle might break. "It might have happened anyway. I mean... I told you how I felt about her." Quiet, then, "Too bad she doesn't feel the same about me."

Doyle opened one eye. "Didn't sound like that to me. Actually, it sounded like she was just trying to be practical. Which, I'll remind you, isn't a normal state for our Cordelia."

Getting up and pacing over toward the bathroom door, Angel ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than usual. "You think she's, you know... trying to make me feel better?"

"By pretending like it's no big deal, now?" Doyle thought about this for a minute. "Yeah, maybe. Heck, you know her better than I do, these days. What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to think about it anymore," Angel said.

"Glad to know you're ready and willing to confront the hard issues head on." Doyle sighed again. "So what happens now?"

Angel looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Doyle said slowly, "what are you going to do?"

"Well, you know... what Wes said. Make sure we're not alone together... wait until things die down." Angel shrugged helplessly. "What else *can* we do?"

"I'm not gonna stop looking for some kind of answer to this," Doyle promised rashly.

"Yes you are," Angel said. "This is it -- it's over. It never should have started in the first place."

Doyle sat up straighter on the bed, wincing. "That's bullshit, man. If anyone deserves to be happy, it's you. You think there isn't some way to convince the universe of that?"

"I don't know. I don't even think I care." Angel sounded tired, that was for sure. He was looking down at the floor, but he glanced up at Doyle for a quick second. "I just... can't do this. It's better for her -- better for everyone -- if it ends here."

Unconvinced, but not wanting to press Angel at that moment, Doyle sighed. "Okay -- whatever you say. Just remember something?"

"What?"

"Remember that there's a bunch of us who *do* want you to be happy. Happy as you can be, anyway. And we're willing to go the extra mile to get you there. If you'll let us."

Angel didn't seem to have an answer to that, and after a minute Doyle slid back down and rested his aching head on his arm. He didn't hear Angel walk across the room, but he did hear the soft sound of the door opening as Angel left. 

* * * * * 

Cordelia had a big fake smile plastered on her face, but once she and Wesley started down the staircase it fell away.

"Are you all right?" Wesley asked her.

"Yeah," Cordelia said, then shook her head. "No. I kind of wasn't expecting this."

"Which part?"

"*Any* part. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not like I ever thought Angel'd break any mirrors." Cordelia paused on the last stair. "Which actually I guess he couldn't do anyway, being a vampire and all."

"Probably not." Wesley wasn't one hundred percent certain where Cordelia was going with this, but under the circumstances he was more than willing to let her wander a bit. "So...?"

"So I didn't think things between me and Angel were going to get all, you know..." She made a completely meaningless gesture with her hand.

"Romantic?" Wesley ventured.

"I guess."

"You... don't sound as upset as I thought you'd be."

Cordelia shrugged. "What do you want me to do, cry all over your shirt?" She seemed casual, but Wesley suspected there was something deeper going on, a suspicion that was confirmed when her voice softened, and she glanced at him with troubled eyes. "Besides... crying about it's not gonna change anything. Right?"

"That's true," Wesley said hesitantly. "But... that doesn't mean you haven't a right to your feelings. Whatever they are."

"What I'm feeling right now is tired," Cordelia said, with a slight gesture behind her at the doors to the outside. "I'm gonna go home."

"Sounds like a wise idea."

"That's me, wise." Cordelia gave him a bright smile, one that only seemed partially forced. "It's okay, Wesley. We're all gonna be okay."

She stepped out through the doors and into the sunshine.

There really wasn't, Wesley mused, any other place she belonged.

* * * * * 

"You're sure you're all right?" Wesley asked again, glancing at Doyle with concern. "It really wouldn't be any trouble to drop you back off at the apartment first."

"I'm fine," Doyle repeated.

It sounded as if he was getting impatient, and Wesley decided it was time to back off a bit. "Well, I suppose this way you can help me figure out what to buy," he said lightly. "Up until this point you've been rather at my whim."

"I don't mind. Food's food." Doyle shrugged, then winced. "Some more aspirin might be good though."

Wesley pulled the car into a parking space and shut it off, then reached over and cupped the side of Doyle's face in his hand. Doyle closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. "Would you like to stay here? I could just grab a few things."

Doyle took a deep breath, then shook his head. "Nah. I'm okay. Just gettin' used to it again I think."

"There may be things we can do to make it easier on you," Wesley said, as they got out of the car and headed into the brightly-lit supermarket.

"Uh huh. Like all the things that worked so well on Cordy?"

"There's a world of difference between you and Cordelia." Wesley decided on a trolley rather than a basket, then clarified, "Well, half a world. The fact that she's human was a serious obstacle in our attempts to help her. That fact that you're not -- at least, not wholly -- puts you into a completely different category altogether." He walked slowly, mindful of Doyle's shorter legs and aching head.

"So you think there's some, I don't know..." Doyle made a slight, vague gesture in the air, "Magic? That could help?"

Wesley nodded as they turned down the first aisle. "There are things that might block the pain. Of course there's always the issue of whether or not they might block the visions as -- "

"No," Doyle said, putting out a hand to stop the trolley. "We don't block the visions."

"No, of course not." Wesley moved closer, hoping he sounded soothing. "I only meant that that might be a temporary side effect while we try to work out where our best options lie. It wouldn't be a permanent -- "

Doyle cut him off again. "It won't be a temporary, either. I'd rather put up with the killer headaches than take a chance on missing a vision."

"I know you feel an obligation toward Angel..." Wesley started, and a third time Doyle interrupted him.

"Screw Angel," Doyle said hotly, then flushed a bit and shook his head. "Um... not literally."

"I hope not." Wesley waited, then asked. "What did you mean?"

Doyle shrugged, but the look in his eyes was intense. "The visions -- they're a responsibility. I'm not saying I like the side effects, but that still doesn't mean I want to take chances with other people's lives just to avoid having to take a few bottles of aspirin."

"Speaking of which..." They walked further down the aisle, and Wesley pointed out the shelves of painkillers on the right, watching as Doyle chose one and tossed it into the trolley. Wesley felt ashamed of himself for not having realised what Doyle was talking about, for not having assumed that there was more to it than just wanting to do right by Angel. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"What for?" Doyle looked confused, and stepped closer to lay a hand over Wesley's where it rested on the handle of the trolley.

"For thinking the worst," Wesley admitted.

"You mean the Angel thing?" Doyle squeezed his fingers gently. "It's okay. Don't beat yourself up over it. Remember, I was dealing with the visions before you even came onto the scene -- it's old hat by now. And it's not like I don't appreciate the concern."

"That's what it is," Wesley said gratefully. "I don't like seeing you in pain, any more than I liked seeing Cordelia in pain."

"It's not as bad for me," Doyle said. "One of those times when being half-demon actually comes in handy."

"And the other times would be...?" They started walking again and turned into the next aisle, where Wesley paused to put a loaf of the toasting bread he preferred into the trolley.

"Fighting, mostly." Doyle stood looking at the shelves, then took down a jar of peanut butter. "We should stock up," he said. "Not necessarily right now, what with this Ceilidh band playing 'Whiskey in the Jar' right behind my eyes, but... at some point."

Wesley considered this. "You're probably right. I suppose I've gotten a bit too used to living on take-aways and leftover take-aways."

"Nothing wrong with take-out," Doyle countered. "In moderation. But all that fried stuff'll get to you after a while."

Trying to muster up a feigned affront, Wesley frowned. "Are you suggesting that I'm out of shape?"

"Suggesting what?" Doyle looked astonished, then grinned as he realised that Wesley was joking. He fell in step behind Wesley, snaking an arm around his waist from behind for just a moment, hand brushing over Wesley's flat stomach. "Feels like a great shape to me," Doyle said, very quietly, although they were alone in the aisle and no one would have overheard him regardless.

Wesley turned and smiled at him. All of this was so... unexpected. And wonderful. He supposed that on some level he was waiting for it to all go bad, when really he should be enjoying it while it lasted.

They moved to the fresh vegetable aisle, each of them choosing a few items.

"Used to drive Angel nuts," Doyle said suddenly, in a casual tone.

"What did?"

"Me. Not wanting to go into demon face when we were fighting."

Wesley nodded. It was clear that Doyle was trying to tell him something that was difficult to admit, so he didn't say anything, just waited to see what came next.

"I think he thought I was being stubborn. You know, denying who I was." Doyle picked up a small sack of bakery cookies. "Think the budget extends to food with no actual nutritional value?"

"Of course," Wesley said absently, gesturing for Doyle to put the package into the trolley, more interested in the topic of conversation at this point than he was in what they were buying. "So you prefer to fight as a human? Even if it's to your benefit to do otherwise?"

Doyle glanced at him, then shrugged. "It's just... not my style."

"It shouldn't be about fighting fairly," Wesley said.

That earned him a snicker. "That's pretty much what Angel said."

"But there are other benefits as well," Wesley pressed on. "Enhanced sense of smell, enhanced hearing... I'd imagine even your vision is sharper."

"Yeah. And don't get me wrong, I appreciate all that stuff, as far as it goes." Doyle added something else to the trolley. "I dunno, maybe I was already so used to doing without all the extra... *super powers*..." He shrugged again, leaving Wesley to wonder if the gesture was some new form of communication he hadn't gotten the memo on.

"I'm sure it was quite an adjustment." Wesley thought that perhaps Doyle was still gearing up to saying something even more difficult to admit to. "Although... maybe not as big as this one?"

Doyle shot him a look. "'This one' being what, exactly?"

"Us," Wesley said simply. "Or rather, you. With me."

"You're really the king of reading in stuff that's not there, aren't ya." There was, rather surprisingly, a smile on Doyle's face -- the fond sort of smile that Cordelia often wore when Wesley had done something a bit silly but also endearing. "Yeah, it's an adjustment, but no, I'm not trying to say that it's one I can't make."

Wesley found himself smiling back. "I'm... I'm glad," he managed to say, an enormous understatement if there ever was one. He was actually tempted to pull Doyle close and kiss him, but realised that the place was no doubt a bit too public for that.

Besides, there was always the rest of the evening, stretched out ahead of them.

As they headed for the checkout, Wesley began to think about the future. He liked what he saw.

* * * * * 

"We should get you a key," Wesley said, as he unlocked the door while Doyle juggled the other three bags of groceries. "I had a spare somewhere, but I don't know where it ended up. Actually, I think I loaned it to Cordelia and never saw it again."

"Sounds about right," Doyle said, following Wes inside and kicking the door closed behind him. Wes dropped the book he'd been holding in one hand onto the nearest end table and headed toward the kitchen with the other bag of food.

As Wes started to put the groceries away, Doyle watched and tried to help where he could. Wes stretched to put a box of dried pasta on the top shelf and the movement pulled his slacks tight against his thighs, and Doyle felt himself getting hard at the image. Christ, he was pitiful. Couldn't even unpack a few bags without getting turned on. Firmly, he told himself that they were going to put away the food and eat a decent dinner without getting all distracted by the pleasures of the flesh.

Wes had turned and was looking at him with a funny expression on his face.

"Sorry. What?"

Wesley gestured at the bag Doyle was still holding. "I said, you could hand me that. Are you all right?"

Doyle nodded, trying not to notice the curve of Wesley's upper lip. Trying not to think about how it would taste if he licked it. "Yeah, sorry. Just... distracted." He tried to turn the conversation in another direction as he handed the bag over. "You sure about the key thing?"

Opening the fridge, Wesley bent to put some carrots and lettuce into the crisper bin, and Doyle had to look away and try to think of something other than his cock in Wes' arse. "Of course I am," Wes said, straightening up. "Unless... did you not want to keep staying here? I suppose it might be rather small for two people."

"I don't take up much room," Doyle pointed out. "And not like I've got a lot of stuff. I just wanted to make sure you'd thought this through. I'd hate to wake up in a couple of weeks and find out you were feeling cramped."

Wes set a can of soup down on the counter and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Doyle's.

Doyle moaned softly into the kiss, then murmured, "I was trying to control myself here, you know."

"I want you," Wesley said, his voice smooth around the edges like a caress. "Here, in the apartment with me. Not to mention right now."

"We should finish putting away the food," Doyle said weakly, still trying to do the right thing, whatever the hell that was. "And cook dinner."

Wesley's hand moved down to fondle Doyle's cock, his touch teasing. "Do you really think it's fair to expect ourselves to concentrate when we're like this?" He slid down to his knees and breathed warm air through the fabric of Doyle's slacks.

"Jesus." Doyle closed his eyes, feeling his cock twitch.

"But if you really think we should stop..." Wesley said, with a show of great reluctance.

A sound that might have been a yelp escaped Doyle, and he grabbed onto Wes' shoulder. "No. Christ, don't stop. Please."

Wesley's smile was warm, lighting up his face. One finger traced its way along the inseam of Doyle's trousers. "You're sure?"

"No. I mean, yeah, I'm sure." Doyle wasn't sure of much, including what he was saying, but he knew that he wanted more. Needed it.

Wes was undoing the button on his trousers, pulling out Doyle's cock and licking it. "Oh good," Wes said, and slid his lips down around the shaft, warm and wet and every bit as good as Doyle had remembered it.

In less than a minute, Doyle was trembling, his hands clenched into fists as he tried to control himself. The sight of Wes down there on his knees just about took his breath away.

Then Wes stopped and pulled back.

Doyle whimpered slightly before he could stop himself, but Wes was already getting to his feet. "Come on," he said.

"Well, that's what I was *hopin'* to do before you stopped," Doyle said, the whine in his own voice enough to set his teeth on edge.

Wesley kissed him, then took his hand and started to tow him out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "If I'm going to love you, I want to do it properly," Wes explained, then paused, as if aware that he'd said too much.

Doyle took Wes' face between his hands, looking directly into his eyes. He felt something welling up inside of himself, some nameless affection, vast and powerful. Or maybe not so nameless after all. "Sounds perfect," he said, very distinctly so there'd be no question of what he meant.

He found himself being walked down the hallway, carefully stripped of his clothes, then pushed down onto the bed. Wes' mouth was hot and slick around his cock again, and a slippery fingertip was teasing just behind his balls -- not trying to get inside him, just sliding across the skin, making every nerve in his body feel over-sensitized.

Wes moved back up to kiss him, and Doyle groaned at the loss of contact, his own hands clutching at Wes' hips, pulling him closer.

"I want you," Wesley said, like an echo from before. "Want to be inside you." The gently probing finger found his entrance and pushed inside, just a tiny bit.

Doyle's cock throbbed painfully. "Yeah," he said, thinking that in that moment he might have agreed to anything. His hips rose slightly, and he groaned again as Wes' finger moved deeper. "Yeah."

More kissing, slowly, while Wes finger-fucked him. Wes pressed in carefully, still deeper, bumping a spot that felt aching and swollen in a way that made Doyle's cock jump.

"Wes... Wesley. Christ. More."

Wes sure as hell knew what he was doing -- Doyle could barely keep still, writhing and squirming on the bed as Wesley rubbed that spot over and over again. Doyle's cock was harder than it had even been in his life.

"More," Doyle gasped again, then choked back a groan when Wesley obliged and added a second finger, stretching him almost painfully. "Fuck."

Wesley stopped, waited, then moved his fingers just the slightest bit, curling them so that his fingertips pushed over that same spot. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly, kissing Doyle's lower lip.

"What? No." Doyle felt like the world around him was dimmer compared to this, the pure sensation that he was experiencing. "No, don't stop." He squirmed again, still wanting more. "Actually, I think that might have been a request."

Fingers moving again, in and out, making Doyle's cock ache with the need to come. "Are you sure?" Wesley asked. "Because that's something that can wait, if you're not ready..."

Doyle tilted his hips and closed his eyes. "You want me to beg?" In a somewhat desperate voice that wasn't in any way an exaggeration, he said, "Please. Fuck me?"

Only the briefest pause, and then Wesley was kissing him breathless, his fingers moving faster now, the combination making Doyle's head spin. "I'd love to. If you're sure," Wes said against his lips.

"Please," Doyle said, and something like a whimper escaped him. He was past the point of knowing what it was he wanted -- just that he needed more, needed to come, needed something. "Please."

Wesley pulled away briefly, his fingers disappearing and leaving Doyle achingly empty.

Doyle whimpered again as Wes' hand closed around his cock, stroking once, twice, then a third time, and his whole body shook as the urge to come got almost overwhelming. "Turn over," Wesley said softly. "It... you'll enjoy it more, this first time."

Barely aware of what he was doing, Doyle turned over onto his stomach, then let Wes pull him up onto his hands and knees. Wes was behind him, pressing kisses onto Doyle's spine and lower back.

Something hard and blunt and impossibly large pushed at Doyle's opening, and he realized that it was Wes' cock, slick with lubricant and a layer of latex. "Relax," Wes said, his hand reaching around to pull at Doyle's cock again, and Doyle would have come right then if Wes hadn't, in that moment, surged forward an inch or two into him.

Wes' hand was still stroking Doyle's cock. "Are you all right?" Wes asked, sounding calm even though Doyle could tell it was costing some effort for the other man not to move.

In response, Doyle shifted his own hips forward and then back again, so that Wes' cock slid deeper into him. "Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself, then moved again when it seemed like Wes wasn't going to, groaning at the feel of Wesley's hardness pushing into him. He'd expected it to hurt, and it did -- he hadn't expected it to feel good at the same time. Too big, and strangely, somehow, just right. Doyle didn't understand how Wes' cock pushing into his ass could make his own cock feel so good that it eclipsed everything else, but it did. He groaned again as that aching spot inside him was rubbed, and moved back onto Wesley's cock another time.

Finally seeming to take the hint, Wesley grabbed onto Doyle's hip with his free hand and started to thrust slowly, in and out, while Doyle bit his lower lip as he tried to keep himself from coming. It was so good, so much better than he ever could have imagined, that he didn't want it to be over, not this soon.

"Doyle," Wes said. "God, you feel... incredible."

Doyle pushed back hard to meet the next thrust, making it sharper, and gasped as what felt like fireworks jolted inside him and into his cock, which throbbed in Wes' hand. "Don't stop," he gasped, repeating the motion and getting the same result. "Jesus, Wes, please don't stop."

It was one time when having a brilliant lover paid off, because Wesley instantly started snapping his hips forward viciously, mimicking what Doyle had been doing. Wes' hand on his hip clenched, Wes' cock moved in and out faster and harder, not leaving Doyle time to breathe or think or do anything but feel, every nerve in his ass and cock sensitized to the point of where his orgasm was so close, so fucking close...

"Wes..." Doyle said, pained, trembling. "I'm so... I can't..."

Wesley pulled out almost all the way, then plunged into him again, forcing Doyle open, making him shake. The hand on Doyle's cock squeezed at the head, stroked, squeezed again.

One more long hard thrust, then Doyle felt Wes' cock throbbing rhythmically inside him. Wes gasped something that might have been Doyle's name and pressed further into him, not thrusting, but just pushing deep. Doyle could feel Wes coming in the clutch of the hand on his hip, in the trembling of the thighs that were up against his own. In the groan that worked its way out of Wes, vibrating through the small of Doyle's back and into his spine, then into his own cock.

Desperate for his own release, Doyle reached down and touched himself, just once, and then he came too. He cried out as it flashed through him, only dimly aware of the warm slickness spurting over his fingers, and over Wesley's fingers where they were tangled together. The orgasm seemed to tighten his whole body, including his ass, and Wes gave a little whimper in response.

Doyle's arms and legs felt warm and limp and like they weren't going to hold the two of them up much longer. Wes must have sensed that, because he gently pulled them both over onto their sides, somehow managing to get them onto the mattress without pulling out of Doyle's body.

"That was... wow," he said, knowing it was totally inadequate, but also the best he could do.

Wes' breath moved across the back of Doyle's shoulder as he spoke. "You won't hear any arguments from me."

Doyle waited a few seconds, feeling his muscles softening as he relaxed even more, feeling his body sinking into the mattress. Wesley took advantage of the moment to slide out carefully, and okay, maybe he was a *little* bit sore, but he was too sated to care. He reached blindly to where Wes' hand rested on his hip and lay his own hand over Wesley's. Sleepily, he asked, "Aren't we supposed to go make some dinner?"

"Sooner or later," Wesley agreed.

His eyelids were heavy, and his upper lip felt, just a tiny bit, like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. "Could take a nap first," he suggested, knowing that he was being a bad influence and not caring in the slightest.

"If we go to sleep now, we won't wake up until morning." It was a mild British protest, more for show than anything else.

"Would it be a bad thing if I said I didn't care?"

Wesley pressed a kiss to the back of Doyle's neck. "No. We can always eat in the morning."

Doyle sighed contentedly. "Good." The thoughts running through his head were slowing down, starting to become separate, like a slide show of individual concepts. Angel and the happiness clause. Cordy and her stubbornness. The visions. All things that needed to be dealt with, come hell or high water.

And then the one thing that was just fine the way it was: Wesley.

"Love you," Doyle breathed, and sleep drifted over him.

_Love dragged its tail of pain,_  
_its train of static thorns behind it,_  
_and we closed our eyes so that nothing,_  
_so that no wound could divide us._

_This crying, it's not your eyes' fault;_  
_your hands didn't plunge that sword;_  
_your feet didn't seek this path;_  
_this somber honey found its own way to your heart._

_When love like a huge wave_  
_carried us, crashed us against the boulder,_  
_it milled us to a single flour;_

_this sorrow fell into another, sweeter, face:_  
_so in an open season of the light_  
_this wounded springtime was blessed._

_\-- Pablo Neruda_


End file.
